“I talked about my marriage with you because I thought we were friendly,” I cut in, my voice low but steady. “But it’s apparent to me that’s not what you think this is. And that’s exactly why it stops here.”
Her eyes flash defensively. “You’re overreacting.”
I give her a pointed look. I don’t want anything to be lost in translation. “No, I am not. You need to behave professionally, which meansnotouchingever again.”
I glance toward the corner of the hallway where the security camera blinks, red light steady. I approved their placement, so I know exactly what they capture. If she decides to twist this, there’ll be proof that I wasn’t the one crossing lines.
When I look back at her, the fight’s already draining from her face. She’s also looking at the camera. She knows some of what I’m thinking.
“I’ve got work to do.”
I walk away.
I wanted someone to listen. That’s all. But what I did was invite someone into my inner circle who isn’t a friend, doesn’t want to be friends, wants something else.
Never again.
Because the line between being lonely and being unfaithful isn’t miles wide. It’s a hairline fracture, one I almost let split wide open.
One thing is clear to me now. If I’m having a problem with Jayne, I need to fucking talk toJayne, not Paul or Tory or the wall of our shower.
CHAPTER 17
Jayne
Eight weeks. That’s how long it took before Rhys fell off the wagon.
It wasn’t some spectacular, explosive headline-worthy event; it was a moment here and a moment there—old habits creeping back in through the cracks we never sealed.
He’s been late three times this week, missing dinner.
He missed Mikaela’s gymnastics once.
He forgot to pick up Finn once—something Finn never told me—and our son ended up getting a ride home with a teammate’s parents.
The difference is that he notices now. He apologizes. But apologies are not going to cut it in the long run, are they?
I’m proud of him for trying as hard as he is, and yet, I’m also bitter, because even though he’strying, I’m theone who still has to keep the plates spinning. I’m the one who remembers snack day, teacher gifts, bills, and birthdays. He gets points for showing up. I get to say thank you fortrying.
By the time he walks in tonight, the kids are in bed, the kitchen’s clean, and I’m bone-tired from work and holding it all together.
“Hey.” He leans to kiss me before he shrugs off his jacket. He looks wrung out. Eyes shadowed, shoulders tense. “You still up?”
“Barely,” I murmur.
He hesitates, like he’s deciding whether to say what he wants to say. “Can we talk?”
There it is.The four-word warning siren of married life.
“Sure,” I agree, though every cell in my body screams no.
He sits across from me at the table. “I need to tell you something that happened today.”
My stomach drops. “Do you want something to drink?” I want a continuance, a brief respite from what he’s going to tell me.
But he just keeps talking. “Tory,” he begins as he rubs the back of his neck.
I suck in a sharp breath.
