But I can’t get the image of my wife screwing someone in a bathroom out of my head.
She never told me where it happened. And honestly, I didn’t want the details. I still don’t. But that hasn’t stopped my mind from filling in the blanks.
From conjuring up images of her giving what I thought was mine to someone else.
Her moans. Her pleasure.
There are so many questions running through my head, and they’re not the ones people assume. Not “who was he?” or “what did he look like?”
It’s worse than that.
Did she come?
Did they talk after?
Did she cry in his arms?
If I ever mess up again, will she call him?
Those are the questions I should be asking her.
But what if she answers yes?
How the hell am I supposed to justify forgiving her then?
Chapter Sixteen
Jess
Mackie pops her head in at five. “You need anything?”
Through blurry, tired eyes I can see she’s changed her clothes.
“No,” I say, stretching my back. “I’m going to take the rest of this home.” I give her a once-over. “You look pretty.”
“Why, thank you,” she says, doing a ridiculous little curtsy. “Everyone at my mom’s retirement home won’t know what hit them.”
I laugh. “Get it, girl.” Then I make a shooing motion. “Go before you’re late.”
She nods, putting on her coat. “Don’t forget daycare closes at seven today.”
“Go,” I say quickly instead of admitting that yes, I absolutely did forget.
The door clicks shut behind her.
I rub the center of my back and glance around the office.
Why am I doing this in this uncomfortable chair when I could be doing it at home on my comfy couch?
Well, it’s because at home, I’ll have to entertain the children I barely see and play with the dogs I’ve apparently forgotten exist, because incidentally I have to do everything myself now.
Okay, that’s not entirely fair.
I have a newfound respect for Logan for doing this endless crap for years. But he did have the privilege of me handling the home front for him.
I’m pretty sure he never sat at his desk wondering what to make for dinner or if feeding the kids chicken nuggets makes him a bad mom.
“Ah, fuck,” I mutter to myself.
