I glance up at Shephard, my smile forced but as genuine as I can muster under the circumstances. “I see that.”
Shephard slips around us, his presence looming larger now that he’s inside the cabin. Just as I stand back up, he leans in for a quick kiss, his lips brushing against mine in a way that feels foreign after everything I’ve done. “Sorry,” he mutters, his tone apologetic. “They insisted I not tell you.”
“It’s fine,” I say, my voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions crashing through me. I hope my reaction is convincing, that he can’t see through the mask I’m wearing. “I needed the break.”
Shephard is holding two bags of groceries. He sets them on the counter with a sense of purpose, already moving toward the front door again before I can even process what’s happening. “We’re going to cook dinner for you,” he says over his shoulder, his smile wide and genuine. “I’ll grab the rest of the groceries.” He heads back outside, and I pry the girls away from me with as much patience as I can manage.
“Mommy needs to change out of her nightgown,” I say, trying to sound lighthearted as I usher them toward the kitchen. “You two start putting away the groceries.”
They’re too young to know how to put away groceries in a home they’re unfamiliar with, of course. Andi is four and Chloe is five. Shephard and I had them back-to-back, hoping it would be easier on us to go through the toughest years all at once. Now, watching them climb onto the chairs to reach the counter, their little faces full of concentration as they pull items from the bags, I feel a pang of guilt so sharp it’s almost physical. I should be better than this. I should be abetter mother, a better wife. I shouldn’t be living this double life, sneaking moments with a man who isn’t my husband.
I glance out the kitchen window, watching as Shephard reaches into his trunk to grab the rest of the groceries. My stomach churns with a mixture of dread and urgency. I rush to the bedroom and grab my phone, my hands shaking as I open my texts to Saint. My fingers fly across the screen as I type, each word feeling like it’s sealing something inevitable.
Whatever you do, please do not come back here today.
I toss my phone on the bed and strip out of my nightgown, my heart still racing with the fear of what could happen if Saint shows up. The thought alone is enough to make my skin crawl with anxiety. I hear the buzz of his reply come through just as I’m pulling a shirt over my head.
My hands are still trembling as I grab my phone and read the text.
Is everything okay?
I hesitate for a moment, my thumb hovering over the screen. I don’t want to lie to him, but for some reason, it feels like I’ve betrayed him. He’s never asked me if I’m married, so there’s really nothing for him to be upset about. Besides, he’s married too. He’ll understand. He’ll probably even be relieved.
My husband and kids just showed up.
I delete all my texts from him and finish getting dressed. I slide my phone in my back pocket so Shephard won’t see me preoccupied with it.I walk out of the bedroom just as Shephard is heading into the kitchen with the rest of the groceries.
Chloe rushes over to me with a puzzle she’s pulled off a shelf. “Mommy, can we do a puzzle?”
“Please?” Andi begs.
I nod and look over at Shephard. “You want to join us?” I’ll do anything to pretend I’m a good wife and mother, and not the terrible human being I’ve been since showing up here.
“You girls go ahead. I’m going to prep.”
Shephard seems at ease as he begins pulling items out of the bags. He seems to dive right into the normalcy of our routine, unaware of the chaos I’ve brought into our lives.
Chapter Thirteen
The rhythmic clatter of pans and the faint, comforting smell of garlic fill the kitchen, creating a sense of normalcy that feels so at odds with the storm brewing inside me. Shephard is at the stove, his back to me, stirring something in a gleaming skillet, humming softly under his breath. It’s a tuneless, content sound; he’s completely at ease in his role as the devoted husband and father. He’s prepping dinner while I sit at the kitchen island, hunched over a brightly colored jigsaw puzzle with the girls. Andi, my youngest, giggles beside me, her sticky fingers carefully placing a piece. Chloe murmurs instructions: “No, Andi, that’s a wing, not a tail!”
He’s so absorbed in what he’s doing, the meticulous chopping of herbs, the sizzle of oil, that he doesn’t seem to notice how distracted I am. My eyes dart from the vibrant puzzle pieces to the clock, to the window, to the back of Shephard’s broad shoulders.
But then again, why would he notice? I’ve been playing the part for years, slipping in and out of roles and characters like they were costumes I could change at will. The serene, engaged mother. The supportive, loving wife. The business-minded public speaker. I pretend to be all the things I’m supposed to be when I need to be them, while trying not to live completely in my head. I’m used to it—I’ve been this way my wholelife. I dress the part for every other aspect of my life, but I’m the most me in the silence of my mind. But today, it feels less like I’m wearing a costume and more like I’ve been shoved into a suffocating straitjacket.
The humming falters. It’s almost imperceptible, just a slight catch in his breath, a break in the rhythmic stirring of the pan. My gaze, which was fixed on a bright-blue puzzle piece, flicks to Shephard. His stirring slows, becomes hesitant. His head cocks slightly, his eyes narrowing as he looks out the window, a subtle shift in his focus. There’s a pause, a beat of hesitation that stretches taut in the quiet kitchen, before he turns his attention fully to the driveway, his body stiffening almost imperceptibly.
Something about the shift in his body language sets off alarm bells in my head, a frantic jingle behind my ears. My skin prickles. My stomach clenches, a cold fist tightening. But I don’t look up right away. I can’t. Instead, I keep my eyes glued to the puzzle pieces in front of me, trying to make the disparate pieces fit into a coherent picture, even though my mind is a frantic whirlwind elsewhere.
“Mommy, found it!” Chloe crows, thrusting a yellow piece into my vision. Andi nods approvingly. The girls are giggling beside me, their little hands eagerly helping me assemble the picture of a bustling farm, their joy so innocent. Their laughter, usually a balm, feels like a distant echo in the sudden ringing in my ears.
It should be a moment of calm, of simple family bonding, the kind I tell myself I cherish. But I feel anything but calm, knowing that a car just pulled into the driveway, an uninvited, ominous presence. My hands are shaking as I place down a green piece, missing the connection slightly, my vision hazy as my thoughts spiral.
I tell myself it’s fine, that everything will be fine, that it’s just the neighbors, or a delivery, or ...anyone but him.
But deep down, there’s a gnawing unease that I can’t shake, a cold certainty. It’s been gnawing at me since I sent Saint that text telling himmy husband and children were here. He never responded. The silence from him was louder than any roar.
I’ve been on edge since I sent the text, jumpy at every shadow, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the fragile peace I’ve constructed to shatter.
