How the hell am I supposed to get over that?
Chapter Three
Lorelie
I pace the living room; phone clutched so tightly in my hand my fingers are starting to cramp. The house is quiet, every tick of the clock, the hum of the refrigerator, and the sounds of passing cars makes my heart jump.
After Patrick walked off, Milo and I sat in the car until the sky darkened and Milo finally fell asleep in his booster. Only then did I force myself to drive home. And even then, I took the long way, looping through streets we never use, slowing at every corner, scanning sidewalks in the hope I’d see him walking back. In the hope he’d come to his senses and see how he’s over reacting.
That was six hours ago.
Now it’s nearly midnight. And there’s still no sign of him.
I’ve called him a million times. At first it rang. Now it goes straight to voicemail every single time. Either he turned his phone off… or he blocked me. The idea makes my stomach twist until I feel sick.
My eyes drift to his laptop on the entry table. He never logs out of anything. A part of me considers opening it and tracking his phone. Just to know he’s safe and to finally breathe.
But after everything tonight… I can’t break his trust any more than I already have.
How was I supposed to know they were hookers and not dates. It’s not like he told me about his work. Our relationship back then was mostly booty-calls and stress-relief-sex.
Straightening, I press a hand against the small of my back, pushing down. I may not be showing yet, but the stress is settling there anyway, an ache that spreads down my spine every time I breathe.
I stop pacing and stare at the front door. The porch light is on, like always. With our rotating night shifts, it’s become our unspoken signal,I’m home.His dad watches Milo at their place until one of us picks him up, and the streetlight practically lights up our whole lawn, but the porch light still matters. It always has.
I take a deep breath.
He’s probably at Harvey’s. Or Barry’s.
Licking his wounds. Cooling off.
We’re married. We have a child together. We haveanotheron the way. It’s not like he’ll leave me over this… right?
Even as I whisper that to myself, a strange pressure starts building in my chest. A slow, creeping dread.
It’s the same feeling I had years ago, when there was that knock at the door.
It was Christmas Eve. We’d run out of popcorn halfway through a movie marathon, and neither my sister nor I wanted to go to the store in the cold. We’d argued, high pitched and loud, and our parents finally got tired of the noise and decided they’d go instead.
Not even ten minutes had passed when there was a heavy knock at the door.
And the dread hit me instantly, this same dread blooming now, because somehow, even before I opened it, I knew.
I knew life was about to change. I knew something was wrong.
And standing here tonight, staring at the front door, that same cold weight curls in my chest again.
Shaking it off, I try his cell one last time.
Voicemail. Again.
The same automated message I’ve heard so many times tonight that I’ll probably hear it in my sleep.
Glancing out the window beside the door, I finally turn and head up the stairs. The house feels quiet, the scary, empty quiet when everyone in the house is asleep and you’re alone.
I crack Milo’s door open an inch and make sure he’s asleep. He’s sprawled sideways across the bed, curls mashed against his pillow, one hand clutching his police car. My chest tightens watching another Boise man head down the same path.
I stop myself from going in. Milo has a habit, if he so much asseesone of us in his room at night, he’ll beg until we lie down next to him. And right now, I don’t want to put my emotions on that sweet boy. He already witnessed more than he should have in the car.
