My phone buzzed from the pocket of my cardigan.
Addison
Looks like the weather’s getting worse up there. Do you have everything you need?”
I looked around the cabin—at the remains of our dinner, at the two coffee mugs on the counter, at the dining room chair Teddy hadn’t bothered to push back in when he got up. Evidence of an evening that shouldn’t have happened.
How could I explain that their father had just left? That their elaborate plan had already started its spectacular collapse.
Me
I’ll handle it tomorrow. I just checked, and the bands of heavy snow aren’t supposed to move in until after mid-afternoon. Hopefully, you’ll be here long before then.
Love you both. Stay warm.
The sleet continued its assault on the windows, promising a long night ahead. I could clean up, wash the dishes, pretend this was just another evening in my new life. Or I could pour myself a glass of wine and admit what I’d known the moment I saw Teddy standing in the driveway.
Some doors, once opened, were impossible to close again. Even if you slammed them in someone’s face. Even if you leaned against them with all your weight, trying to keep the past from flooding back in.
Especially then.
4
Five Days Until Christmas
teddy
Weak sunlight filteredthrough the dense clouds, painting everything the color of dirty dishwater. I stared at the spot where Kelsey’s rental SUV should have been, the coffee turning to acid in my gut.
I’d barely slept after leaving last night. Kept replaying our conversation—if you could call that disaster a conversation—wondering how we’d gone from touching in the kitchen to her slamming the door on me like I was some door-to-door salesman. The look on her face when she thought I was confessing to spending my time with the club whores. Christ. Like I’d confirmed every fear she’d ever had about us.
And then I had to go and make a shitty comment about the money, had to get another dig in, as if I was hurting for cash.
The thing was, I’d come here to make amends. Or explain. Or something. I’d rehearsed it on the drive over, had a whole speech about how I hadn’t meant what she thought I meant, how there’d never been anyone else—ever—how the guys at the club were justeasier to be around because they didn’t look at me like I’d killed our son.
But her car was gone, and with it, any chance of fixing what I’d broken.
I killed the engine and climbed out, boots crunching through the fresh powder. Maybe she’d just moved it. Maybe the girls had told her about the large shed I’d built around back. The cold bit through my jacket as the wind picked up again, sleet peppering my face like tiny shards of glass.
No tire tracks leading around the cabin. The shed revealed nothing but a stack of firewood and some rusty garden tools. I circled back to the front porch, noting the single set of footprints already being erased by the storm.
She was gone.
I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering over her contact. We hadn’t spoken on the phone in almost two years. Every communication had been filtered through lawyers or the girls. But this was different. This was about safety, not our failed marriage.
The call went straight to voicemail. Her professional message, the one she’d recorded for work contacts. “You’ve reached Kelsey Riggs with Home Again Transitions. Please leave a message, and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.”
I hung up without leaving anything. Tried again. Same result.
“Come on, Kels,” I muttered, hitting redial. “Don’t do this.”
Four more attempts. Four more trips to voicemail. By the sixth call, I was pacing the porch, my free hand clenched into a fist. The sleet had graduated to something meaner, ice pellets that bounced off the wooden railing like bullets.
I switched to texting, typing with numb fingers.
Me
Where are you?
