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Killian

Believe it or not, a trip to the middle of nowhere to confront the woman my dad’s been having an affair with wasn’t at the top of my Christmas list this year. But then, I don’t think a cancer diagnosis was on my mom’s list, either.

I’ve known for a long time that something was up with my dad. There’s no other explanation for the long stretches he’s spent away over the years. “Work trips”, he calls them. But he’s never been able to tell us what he does on said work trips. We’ve all ignored it, letting it slide for well over a decade, but things are different now. He’s been out of the country while she’s been going through treatment, and over my dead body is he going to get away with breaking the vows he made to my mom any longer.

Which brings me here: Clover Pines, Alberta. A quaint little Canadian town that wouldn’t look out of place in a Christmas movie, with a thick blanket of snow on the ground, and a smell of fresh pine so strong, it almost feels fake.

Welcome to Clover Pines! The luckiest town in the Rockies! the peeling town sign claimed, as I drove past in my rental car.

The irony isn’t lost on me that an Irishman found a mistress in a town called Clover Pines.

I tap the toe of my shoe on the icy path leading up to the rundown two-story house, crossing my arms across my chest and trying to warm myself up a little. It’s not what I expected when I found the deed to the house in my dad’s office. I thought it would be nicer. The area’s decent, but the house is clearly past its prime. The wooden-decked porch is sagging, and the cracked paving stones leave a lot to be desired.

My dad bought this place just over eight years ago, according to the papers I found. He’s the sole owner, and I thought my search was for nothing, until I found a crumpled electric bill for this place addressed to her.

Scarlett Powell.

Her name and address are all I know about her—not for my lack of trying. I’ve spent hours scouring the internet and can’t find a trace of her anywhere, but now Scarlett Powell is a mystery I’m just a few feet from unraveling.

It’s shitty of me to put the onus on the woman to stop my dad from being a cheating bastard, but I know him well enough to know that nothing I say will make him admit what he’s been doing. I just have to hope that whoever Scarlett Powell is, she has a shred of empathy for my mom and agrees to end things.

The porch steps creak under my weight as I make my way to the front door. Once upon a time, it was a glossy red, but the paint is chipped and peeling, leaving behind weather-worn wood that’s seen better days. I raise my fist and knock, wishing I’d had the foresight to pack gloves for a trip to Canada in the dead of fucking winter. Idiot.

There’s tinny Christmas music playing inside, loud enough that I can hear it, but not so loud that it blocks the sound of soft footsteps padding toward the door. I brace myself to come face to face with the woman who’s been sleeping with my mother’s husband.

The door opens and, for a second, I swear I’m seeing things. There’s no way this is her.

The woman standing before me can’t be older than thirty, and that’s being generous. She has long, wavy hair the color of hot chocolate, deep brown eyes with creases by the corners, and rosy pink lips that are twisted in confusion as I stand and stare at her in complete and utter silence.

This can’t be Scarlett Powell. She’s younger than I am, for Christ’s sake.

“Hello? Are you lost?”

Her voice is soft and melodic—enough to jolt me back into the moment.

I clear my throat. “I’m looking for Scarlett Powell.”

“That’s me,” she says, and I see the uncertainty settle on her face at the sound of my voice, like she’s putting the combination of the accent and my appearance together, and can’t quite come up with the answer.

I don’t look like my dad, but we both have the classic Michaelson emerald-green eyes, and they’re distinct enough to be recognizable.

“Do I know you?” she asks, her brow pinched.

“No,” I reply, straightening my shoulders. “But I believe you’re having an affair with my dad, and I’d like you to stop. Please.”

The blood drains from her face, and she takes a step back. “You … You’re …”

“Dom Michaelson’s son, yeah.”

Scarlett braces her hand against her chest, her dark eyes wide. “He told me he didn’t have any family,” she whispers, and I instantly know I’ve fucked up. Shit.

My dad’s a bigger asshole than I thought. If she didn’t know my dad had kids, she probably doesn’t know about my mom.

“He does,” I say, forcing myself to be a little gentler, like she’s a feral cat and might bolt. “He has three children. I’m the oldest. And he has a wife.”

She falls back against the doorframe, and I think she’s going to throw up as she closes her eyes and inhales deeply through her nose. “A wife.” It’s barely audible, and her eyes are closed, but I nod anyway.