I speak first because silence feels awful. “So,” I say, voice too even. “My husband cheated on me.” She doesn’t flinch. She never does. Just nods once. “When did this happen?”
“Yesterday,” I say, though it feels like years ago already. “Or maybe forever ago. Hard to tell.” She tilts her head slightly. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” I laugh. Not a real laugh, more of a sound that escapes before I can stop it. “Do I want to? No. Do I need to? Probably.”
I stare at the floor for a second, at the way the sunlight cuts through the blinds in tidy little lines, making everything look organized, unlike my life. “I walked in on him,” I finally say. “In our bed. With his assistant. Which, honestly, I didn’t even think people actually did outside of bad TV.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but her voice softens. “That must have been painful.”
“Painful, sure,” I say, rubbing my temples. “And humiliating. And… weirdly predictable? I don’t know. I can’t tell if I’m heartbroken or just tired.”
“Maybe both,” she says quietly.
“Maybe,” I echo. The clock ticks on the wall, steady and indifferent. “I haven’t told the kids yet,” I say. “And I don’t even know what I’m supposed to tell myself. I spent years building this life — the marriage, the career, the picture of what happiness is supposed to look like.And now I’m standing in the middle of it, realizing half of it was fake.”
Dr. Kamari leans forward slightly. “What do you need most right now?” I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I feel like an idiot.” The words scrape their way out. “Maybe I ignored the signs. Maybe I wanted to.” Dr. Kamari tilts her head. “What signs do you think you missed?”
I stare at the floor. The carpet’s a soft gray, neutral and expensive, the kind of color that doesn’t demand attention. “I don’t know, when he wasn’t home. When he was always… distracted. Distant.” I let out a bitter laugh. “Apparently, it was just him being a cheating asshole.” She doesn’t react, not with shock, not with pity. Just that steady calm that makes people tell her the things they shouldn’t.
“What else are you feeling?” she asks. I don’t even hesitate. “Guilty. And ashamed.”
“Why guilt?” And there it is. The question I’ve been circling since the minute I walked in. “Because I’m not exactly innocent,” I say. My voice is quieter now. “I slept with someone when I was back home.”
Her eyes stay on mine. No judgment, no surprise. Just space. “Someone I used to love,” I add. “Someone I probably never stopped loving.”
The confession hangs there between us. It should feel catastrophic; it should crush me, but it doesn’t. Instead, it feels like air finally filling my lungs again. Forthe first time in weeks, I can breathe. “I don’t know what that makes me,” I whisper. “A hypocrite? A coward?”
Her expression softens. “It makes you human,” she says. “It makes you someone who was hurting and found comfort in someone familiar.” The words hit something deep in me. Tears start burning at the corners of my eyes before I can blink them back.
“He reminded me of who I was,” I manage. “Who I could still be if I wanted to.” She nods slowly. “And now?”
I laugh, but it comes out broken, more like a cough. “Now I feel like I’ve wrecked my entire life. Marriage. Family. My sense of self. And I don’t even know if I’m mourning David or the version of him I built in my head.”
“Both,” she says quietly. “And that’s allowed.” That breaks me. Because that’s exactly what Ethan told me, almost word for word, and hearing it again makes everything blur. I look down, tears falling onto my hands, and I can’t tell if I’m crying for what I lost, or for the parts of me I finally stopped hiding.
When I get home,I expect silence. I expect the hollow echo of an empty house, the kind that matches the noise in my head. What I don’t expect is Julia.
She’s in my kitchen, barefoot, wearing leggings and one of my hoodies, the one she “borrowed” years ago and apparently decided to make hers again. There’s a box of muffins open on the counter and two sweating matchas sitting side by side like they’re waiting for me.
I freeze in the doorway. “What the hell are you doing here?” She looks up, totally unfazed, and shrugs. “You texted. I booked the first flight out.” That’s all it takes.
Whatever fragile composure I was clinging to just snaps. I start crying, not the quiet kind, but the kind that hurts in your throat and makes you realize how long you’ve been holding your breath. Julia doesn’t hesitate. She crosses the room in two quick strides and wraps her arms around me, tight. The kind of hug that doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t need context.
“I got you,” she whispers against my hair. “Whatever happens, I’ve got you.” It’s simple, and it undoes me even more.
When I finally pull back, I’m a mess, red eyes, streaked mascara, puffy face. She doesn’t comment. Just grabs a tissue and hands it to me like we’ve done this a thousand times before. “Did you sleep last night?” she asks.
“Barely.” My voice sounds small. “So now what?” I exhale. “I don’t know.” She raises an eyebrow. “Bullshit. Try again.” Typical Julia, blunt, relentless, but loyal as fuck.
I stare down at my lap, twisting a napkin in my hands. The truth feels heavy, but saying it out loud feelslighter somehow. “I asked my lawyer to start the divorce.” She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t gasp. Just nods, slow and certain. “Good.”
Then she grabs my hand across the counter, squeezes. “You’ll be fine.” And that’s it. That’s all I needed to hear.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ETHAN
It’s been two weeks.
