“I know,” I say, my voice softening, the anger deflating, leaving behind only exhaustion. “I know. It’s just ... it’s hard to switch gears. My head’s not in that space right now. And with ... with everything else.” I almost saySaint, but the name catches in my throat, a dangerous secret.
He just sighs, releasing me. The conversation, like so many lately, dead-ends, unresolved. We’re both left with our unspoken grievances, our quiet resentments. He’s stressed, I’m guilty and creatively stifled, and the money situation is a constant undercurrent of tension.
I look at him, at his tired profile, and the guilt gnaws. He’s not a bad man. He’s working hard for our family. But the connection, the spark, theunderstandingthat used to bridge these gaps, feels thin. And I just made it so much worse.
I just don’t feel like I’mPetrahere, so him showing up and bringing my real life into my creative solitude is jarring.
These writing weeks give me an opportunity to slip out of my own skin and into the skin of someone else entirely. I sometimes get so immersed in my writing, I don’t just create the character; Ibecomeher. It’s like I’m living in two worlds at once—one where I’m Petra, the struggling yet outwardly faithful wife and mother, and another where I’m whichever character I’m writing at the moment, someone who exists only on the pages of my book, unburdened by consequence.
Some call it Method writing, and I suppose I can blame my actions on that, blame it on the fact that I let myself get too deep into the story this time. I let the characters take over, let the narrative consume me, and for a while, it felt like I wasn’t even in control anymore. But it doesn’t excuse what I’ve done. It doesn’t change the cold, hard fact that I made a choice, that I crossed a line I can never uncross.
I cheated on my husband, the man who just sat down on the couch again to scroll through his spreadsheets. And all I can do is hope to hellhe never finds out. Because if he does, the tenuous thread our marriage hangs by will snap.
The thought of him knowing, of Shephard looking at me with that raw, wounded hurt and betrayal in his eyes, makes my stomach churn, a sickening, acidic burn. It would destroy him. It would destroyus, the life we’ve meticulously built, brick by agonizing brick.
I’ve always prided myself on my self-control, on my ability to separate fiction from reality, to walk the line between my imagination and my life. But now it feels like everything is bleeding together, indistinguishable, in ways I never expected.
Shephard closes his laptop with a soft, decisive click, the sound sharp and final, breaking through the heavy silence that’s settled between us. It’s been minutes since our terse exchange, minutes filled with the silent hum of the refrigerator and the low volume on the television. He slides the laptop off his lap and onto the couch beside him, his movements slow and deliberate, like he’s considering something profound, something weighty. I can feel him looking at me, his gaze lingering, a warm, familiar weight on my skin, but I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes. Instead, I pretend I’m watching the television, forcing my eyes to stay glued to the screen, focusing on the garish colors, even though I have no idea what’s happening in the ridiculous show, its plot a meaningless blur.
“I didn’t expect this,” he says.
Didn’t expect what?My stomach lurches, cold and empty.
Panic flares in my chest, hot and suffocating. For a split second, a terrifying, absolute certainty crashes over me:He knows.He knows. I think he’s figured it out, that somehow, impossibly, he’s pieced together the truth. I turn to him immediately, my pulse racing, thrumming a frantic rhythm in my ears.
“Didn’t expect what?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend, betraying my sudden, overwhelming fear.
He smiles, a soft, almost wistful expression, his eyes kind but searching, piercing through my facade. “You not being happy that we’re here.” He says it simply, not as an accusation, but as an observation. He’s watching me closely, waiting for my response, but it’s clear he doesn’t suspect anything beyond what’s on the surface—my creative frustration, my need for solitude.
His blindness is both a relief and a new kind of pain.
I can’t relax, not really. The tightness in my chest remains. “What? Of course I am,” I say, but even to my own ears, it sounds forced, hollow, a pathetic attempt at conviction. I plaster a smile on my face, twisting my lips into a semblance of ease, but I know it doesn’t reach my eyes, which still feel wide and terrified.
Shephard’s expression is one of understanding, but there’s something bittersweet about it, a subtle undertone of melancholy. “You were in the groove and we interrupted you. I should have called first. I’m sorry. It’s like we sucked you out of a dream, Petra.”
I let out a short, bitter laugh, unable to help myself, the sound rough and dry. “Or a nightmare,” I mutter under my breath, the words slipping out before I can stop them, a raw, uncontrolled confession. I glance at him, hoping he didn’t catch the tension in my voice, the dark double meaning, but he only laughs again, a light, dismissive chuckle, completely unaware.
“You’ve always been way too hard on yourself,” he says, shaking his head, a fond exasperation in his tone. “But it works out. Every time you come here, you leave with the bones of a brand-new book. It’s your magic place. I believe in you, and I’m sorry I snapped at you. It’s not fair of me to show up and put burdens on you.”
He’s right.
But even though the words I need to hear are pouring from his mouth, he doesn’t truly realize the blood, sweat, and tears that go into every book I write, the piece of my soul I carve out and leave on the page.
To him, these getaways are mini vacations, a clever way to recharge and find inspiration, to relax and then conveniently come home with a finished story, a new product. He never asks about the agony, only the financials.
I don’t fault him for that. How could I? He loves me, supports me in his own way, and he does, in his own practical Shephard way, understand that writing isn’t easy. But no one canreallyunderstand how emotionally draining it is, how utterly consuming, unless they’ve written a book themselves, unless they’ve poured their very essence into something so abstract. It’s not just the hours spent typing away at the keyboard—it’s the aftermath of all that blood, sweat, and tears, and how so many people pick it apart and tell you all that effort was pointless because you’re shit.
And I am. I am a shit human, in more ways than one.
I’m seated on the couch with my legs tucked beneath me, trying to focus on the steady rhythm of my breathing, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart as the soft glow of the television casts flickering shadows around the room, onto Shephard’s face.
Shephard, completely unaware of the turmoil inside me, moves with his usual ease as he reaches over and grabs one of my ankles, his touch warm and familiar, a practiced gesture. He pulls my leg toward him, gently tugging until I’m lying down, my body stretched out beneath him, just as it has been a thousand times before. But this time, something is different. Something feels profoundly, irrevocably wrong.
As he crawls on top of me, his body pressing down in a way that should feel comforting, familiar, an insatiable, overwhelming amount of guilt floods my chest. This couch is tainted by what I’ve done with Saint, and now Shephard is crawling on top of me, in the exact position Saint was in a matter of days ago.
The memory of Saint—his hands, his lips, his body—flashes through my mind like an intrusive thought I can’t shake, a vivid, unwelcome superimposition over Shephard’s face.
He kisses me, his lips soft and familiar against mine, his breath warm, but I can’t lose myself in it the way I should, the way I used to. Every second of the kiss feels like a betrayal in itself, a searing reminder of the secret I’m keeping from him.
