TORI
Past
Skye pullsinto the driveway just as I do.
She’s halfway out of her car when she spots me and grins. “Damn, Foster. You’ve got impeccable timing, as always.”
For the first time in ten years, I don’t quip back with, “It’s Martin, you whore.”
I spot her purple space buns over the roof of my SUV and smile, soaking in the half-light of dusk, cicadas buzzing somewhere in the trees. Skye knows exactly why I called her home for the weekend, and I’m grateful she doesn’t kick off our girls’ night with a heavyare you okayor a pity hug. Instead, she rounds the front of my Telluride in cut-off shorts, combat boots, and a yellow crop top that readsDaddy Issues. She bumps her shoulder into mine, grins, and says, “Hey, bitch,” before heading for the door.
The second we step inside, I breathe in the familiar scent of wood polish and whatever aftershave Skye’s dad has used since we were kids. It’s cooler in here than I expect, and still so eerily unchanged it makes my throat tighten. The floor creaks the same wayit always has, and I can’t tell if the shiver that runs through me is from memory or the quiet panic of knowing I’m actually going to do this—I’m about to sit down with my best friend and talk through the logistics of leaving my husband.
I drop my bag next to the couch and stand there for a second, letting my shoulders fall. This house shouldn’t feel like sanctuary. It’s not mine. But after years of bracing myself at every threshold, walking into a place where no one’s waiting to corner me with silence or sharpened words feels like crawling out of a cage.
Skye kicks off her boots and flops into her usual spot on the couch. “Shoes off?”
“Obviously.”
“Pants or no pants?”
I raise an eyebrow. “It’s nine p.m. and I’m emotionally unraveling.”
She nods solemnly. “No pants it is.”
I peel off my jeans and curl up on the other end, snuggling under a plush blanket I found haphazardly draped over the edge. The quiet between us is soft, familiar. We’ve done girls’ nights countless times before, but never like this.
She waits.Then, finally, I speak.
“I’m leaving him.”
The words don’t punch the air like they used to. They settle. Still a little sharp. Still capable of bruising. But now, instead of sending shockwaves through my system, they feel like truth—like something I’m allowed to say without flinching.
Skye doesn’t react right away. Just tilts her head a little. “Yep. You said that already. Now, say the rest.”
I look around the room. My eyes land on the dented coffee table from that one party we swore we’d never talk about, the scratch on the TV stand, the dusty old family photo that was taken before Skye’s mother passed away all those years ago. Everything here has a history, and somehow that makes it easier to say the next part.
“He’s going to Boston in four weeks. A work trip. Five nights.”
Skye straightens a little. “Nice. Ok. So that’s your window.”
I nod. “That’s my window. I’ll leave the morning after he flies out.”
She doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t fill the space with commentary or reassurance. Just listens.
“I’ve been saving since the Christmas fight,” I continue. “Opened a credit union account he doesn’t know about. Birthday money, some of our tax refund, random cash from the grocery budget—I funneled it all there.”
Her eyes narrow, impressed. “You sneaky little badass. Who knew your accounting skills could be used for evil—or in this case, salvation?”
I don’t respond to that last comment. At first, I felt guilty about building myself a secret fund in case I ever mustered up the ovaries to leave. Then, as the months went on and the glimmers of hope and happiness we were able to find in previous years were nowhere to be found, I tossed all semblance of guilt out the metaphorical window and prepared myself for the day I’d finally reach my limit.
“I’ve got enough for six months without a paycheck. Maybe longer if I get creative. I cook more than I eat out. My clothes are all in great condition so I won’t need to go shopping. I’m not someone who lives in excess.”
“You won’t need six months,” she says confidently. “But even if you did—you’d still be okay.”
My throat tightens. I look down at the blanket twisted in my lap.
“I’m planning to move in once Alis and Sunny are settled with Dexter,” I say. “If that’s still?—”
