I'm trusting that my wife is safe, that she's with her friends, having more fun than I've seen her have in a long time.
I trust that she'll get home safe, that my thoughts are fears, not facts, and that I cannot control everything through my fear.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
I walk out of that bar, feeling a little shaky—but trusting.
And fucking resolved to win her back.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Wendy
"If I ever try to drink again. Please punch me."
Taylor groans as she stumbles like a zombie into my kitchen, makeup from last night smeared all over her face, her pajama pants rumpled, and the hood of her oversized pink hoodie pulled up.
She raises a hand to block the sun shining through the bay window.
"Do you want coffee and breakfast—"
Taylor gags at the mention of breakfast, and I slap my hand over my mouth to cover my giggle.
God, I haven't seen her like this since her twenty-first birthday, where she was singing Hannah Montana in between throwing up the attempted 21 shots she was determined to complete.
She barely made it to nine.
I've never been a big drinker; my twenty-first birthday was spent caring for my toddler, who had a terrible ear infection. I usually just have an occasional glass of wine at holiday dinners.
Taylor isn't a big drinker either, but Trey was at the bar last night. He came over, hugged me, and said hello. Taylor had been struck by a sudden bolt of shyness. She can talk to anyone; she's a hairstylist, it's part of her job, but with Trey... well, she was a blushing, stuttering mess.
And it was adorable.
It was our first night out with Bonnie, too, whom Taylor took to immediately, just as I knew she would.
Bonnie is quite the opposite of her daughter, very talkative and extroverted, able to jump from conversation to conversation with ease.
It was so nice for Taylor and Bonnie to come over to my house, all of us getting dressed and trying on outfits, and Taylor doing our hair.
It felt so good walking into Woody's with my friends, dancing all night, laughing, and taking silly photos. I haven't missed out—being a mother and wife is still my greatest joy—but taking time with friends felt necessary.
While I worried about the boys, I kept repeating to myself that everything was okay, that Atlas could do this.
Atlas had changed so much in the last couple of months. No longer distant and cold. He was smiling more, talking to me, telling me what he was feeling.
He was going to therapy.
He was doing everything that he needed to do.
He was healing.
And I'm placing more and more of my trust in him.
Because that's the main issue—the trust.
Dr. Pace says that trust is built through honest communication, and I'm learning that rebuilding it is slow and so hard.
After two decades of building trust with him, one bad year eroded it. But the thing about erosion is that you can usually stop it in its tracks and treat it.
