“Yas, bitch!” Skye slaps the table, hands out like a toddler begging for candy.
I slide two shots her way and push the others toward Tori. She lifts her brows. “None for you?”
“Not tonight, Tote. Someone has to drive your cute ass home.”
The shot is halfway to her mouth when she freezes, eyes narrowing at the nickname. Confusion creases her brow—what the fuck?written plain as day.
Before she can say a word, I guide the shot glass the rest of the way, steady pressure on her hand until she tips it back, swallows, and slams it down again. I release her slowly, only when her gaze flicks away, back where it should be—on letting loose with her best friend.
Because I’ve seen how tightly wound Victoria Foster is these past few weeks. And Friday, I saw exactly why.
If I can’t fuck the tension out of her, then at the very least I’ll make damn sure she’s safe while she unravels for a night out on the town.
TEN
TORI
Past
The sun is settingbehind the Rocky Mountains, casting a warm, golden light over the valley. The crisp air carries the familiar scent of pine and earth, mixing with the soft hum of cicadas. Shadows stretch long and thin across the ground, the evening light painting the peaks in hues of amber and crimson. I’m sitting on the porch swing with Mom, the wooden slats creaking gently beneath us as we sway back and forth. The soft rustle of leaves in the breeze is almost hypnotic, a soothing melody against the backdrop of nature's orchestra. Normally, this view calms me, but today, the beauty of Moraine feels like a cruel contrast to the chaos inside me.
I came to my parents’ house for dinner while Chase is on a work trip, partly because I wanted a distraction from the thoughts in my head and the growing discontentment I feel with my marriage, and partly because I need advice. Dad has always been a bit of an asshole and Mom doesn’t seem affected by it. I don’t know if that’s because she is blind to how demeaning he is when hespeaks to her or if she knows some secret I don’t about how to maintain a happy marriage.
Is she happy, though?
I shake the thought. Of course, she’s happy. I know her. She’s my mother. I can trust her. I can talk to her. I don’t have to keep bottling this up inside myself, constantly worried that I’m making a big deal out of nothing. This is something. This is a problem. This needs to be addressed.
The swing sways gently, the old chains groaning under our weight as the evening sky deepens to a rich lavender. Crickets join the cicadas, their rhythmic chirping creating a soft, pulsing background. “Mom,” I start, taking another breath before continuing, “are you happy?”
That is not what I meant to ask, but I’ll roll with it.
She looks at me, and for a millisecond I swear I see something hollow in her eyes, but it’s gone and replaced with the serene smile I know and love before I can think too much into it. Her face is lit by the soft glow of the setting sun, which catches the faint lines around her eyes, hinting at years of quiet endurance.
“Of course, I am, honey. Why would you ask?”
Here goes nothing.
“Because I’m not.” Again, not what I meant to say. Is it the truth? Yes. I had simply planned on offering that truth with more finesse.
Her brow furrows, concern evident in her eyes. Mom slides her hand over mine and squeezes gently, a physical sign of reassurance that this is a safe space. The warmth of her hand contrasts with the cool evening air, which seems to whisper around us, carrying with it the scent of distant rain and fresh grass. She’s always been a safe space for me, for everyone. I can talk to her. She can help.
I’m thankful she doesn’t press, just continues holding my hand while I gather my thoughts.
“I mean, I’m happy sometimes. But not… not in the most important aspects of my life.” You know, for someone with such a high IQ and strong conversational skills, I’m doing a shit job of explaining myself right now.
“Such as…” she prompts. I shrug, suddenly nervous to say this out loud. I’ve never admitted these feelings to anyone, and while I know I can tell my mom anything, this suddenly feels different. Dark. Wrong, somehow.
The breeze picks up slightly, brushing against my skin like a whisper, as if the world itself is listening. The wind chimes hanging on the porch tinkle softly, a delicate, almost mournful sound.
“At home. I’m not happy at home. With Chase. With my marriage. I’m not happy when I come home from work, when he comes home from softball practice, when we have to ride in the same car to go somewhere. Basically, the only time I’m happy is when I’m not with him.” There. I said it. I am not happy in my marriage. I do not want to be in my marriage. Nope. Can’t say that. Don’t go there. Let’s focus on happiness, not leaving.
I continue, the words spilling from my mouth without a filter.Get it out. Get it all out.
“Mom, I don’t know what to do. Chase… he’s just so unhappy all the time. I study him, I know his favorite foods and his favorite movies and how he likes his pants folded and shirts hung and no matter what I do, it’s never enough. I can’t do anything right, and it’s gotten to the point that I don’t even want to be around him, let alone talk to him. I can’t talk to him. It doesn’t matter what I say—it’s wrong or he dismisses it or he makes some backhanded comment to make me feel like shit. I read books about how to be a godly woman and a good wife and I do literally everything they say, and nothing changes. I’m tired, Mom. So, fucking, tired. Tired of trying to be exactly who I’m supposed to be and then being treated like I’m not enough. Tired of trying to connect with someone who clearly doesn’t want me. I’m not happy, and goddammit I’m so tired of not being happy.” Holy crap did I just say that? Out loud?
The golden glow of the sun is fading now, the horizon bruising into deep purples and blues. The valley below seems to exhale asoft mist, the cooling air wrapping itself around us. Mom turns to me, her eyes full of concern, but there’s something else there, too—something that tells me she’s about to give me the kind of advice I’m not sure I want to hear. She rubs her thumb over the back of my hand, and I brace myself.
“Tori, marriage is hard,” she begins, her voice soft but firm. The sound of her words seems to blend with the creak of the porch swing and the distant hum of a car on the winding road below. No shit, Sherlock. I hold back my eyeroll, determined to hear her out. “It is a sacred covenant, a commitment you made before God. It’s not about happiness, sweetheart. It’s about holiness. Remember, the Bible tells us that marriage isn’t meant to make us happy—it’s meant to make us holy.”
