Patrick and his family have this belief that kids shouldn’t be shielded from everything, that reality builds character. I don’t disagree, but I draw the line at letting our son hear his parents argue about their body counts.
God.
I close my eyes as I enter our bedroom, shutting the door behind me.
I hadn’t even planned on hooking up with Brick back then. That night wasn’t supposed to go that way.
I was supposed to meet Patrick because my exams were finally over. We had a date. A real one. Something I’d been looking forward to for weeks. And then he canceled last minute with some vague excuse that sounded a hell of a lot like another woman.
So, I got drunk. And I tried to get even.
I regretted both by the next morning. Even more now.
So much more now.
Changing out of my clothes, I drop them into the hamper and make my way to the bathroom. The makeup wipes feel cool against my skin as I strip away the last traces of tonight. Foundation disappears first, then the lashes, then the mascara that had looked so neat a few hours ago. Now it just reminds me how badly the evening unraveled.
I lean closer to the mirror and run my fingers along my cheekbone. Every imperfection stands out under the harsh light. A faint where a pimple used to be. The crease between my brows. That hair on my chin that I’ve been wishing away since puberty.
Flaws. Plenty of them.
But everyone sees too many in their own reflection, don’t they? It’s practically a personality test at this point, noticing your imperfections means you’re still grounded, not a sociopath.
Whether the imperfection is in your appearance or your character, it still stings. You can do everything right and one mistake can ruin everything you’ve built.
I let out a slow breath and rest both hands on the edge of the sink. The woman staring back at me is glowing.
Not in the mystical, goddess-of-fertility way, more like the kind of glow that makes people roll their eyes. You know those women everyone secretly hates for claiming pregnancy is effortless? That’s me. Or… that was me.
I annoyed myself, to be honest. Patrick, my work, our life, it was perfect.
So, fucking perfect.
Not anymore. Now I’m just as miserable and confused as everyone else. Maybe more.
I turn off the bathroom light and slip into bed; the sheets cool and far too spacious without him. I lie on my side, hands tucked under my pillow.
He’s seen my imperfections, but he’ll still come back.
…won’t he?
Patrick
“Hi,” someone says, sliding onto the stool beside mine.
I grunt. I don’t want company. Barry finally left after pestering me to tell him what was wrong. Now all I want is a few minutes of quiet, just enough time to picture my wife screwing someone else in peace.
The bartender sets a glass down in front of me. “Last one,” she warns. She’s new. No idea why she cares.
I stare down at the drink. Eventually, I’m going to have to go home. Not unless I drag this out as long as possible.
“You’re a cop, huh?” the voice beside me asks.
I turn my head, ready to bite at whichever idiot decided to become my problem tonight.
It’s a woman. Young, but barely old enough to be in a bar.
And for half a second, from the side, she looks like Lore, same blonde hair, same high cheekbones.
