Page 109 of Beyond Oblivion

“That’s what you want, right? So, go. Pack up what’s yours and just fucking leave!”

He stomped toward me, his footsteps heavy enough to make the floor tremble beneath us. Before I could say a word, he bent down, grabbed me as if I weighed nothing, and threw me over his shoulder. My breath hitched in shock, my tears forgotten for a moment as he stormed out the front door, slamming it behind him. He didn’t stop until we were standing in the dark driveway. His chest rose and fell with each ragged breath.

“Okay,” he said, his voice strained and raw, “now what?”

I froze, trying to process what had just happened. He hadn’t carried me outside to hurt me—there was no anger in his grip, no malice in the way he held me. It was something else. Somewhere beneath that angry, cold exterior, my husband was trapped, silenced but trying to break through, sending me coded messages with every glance and touch, begging me to show him the way back to me.

Slowly, he lowered me back to my feet, his hands lingering at my sides. I wiped at my face with the back of my hand, mascara smearing across my skin. My throat was tight, and for once, I didn’t know what to say.

“I packed up what’s mine and left. So, now what?” he begged, his eyes glossing over.

I swallowed hard, steadying my voice as I spoke. “We’re dusting off our luggage. We’re getting on a fucking plane. And we’re not coming back until we figure this out.”

His expression crumbled, the cracks in his resolve giving way as he dropped to his knees in front of me. His arms wrapped tightly around my hips, and he buried his face where our baby once grew as a sob tore from his chest, raw and unrestrained.

I placed a trembling hand on the top of his head as he cried into me, my eyes lifting to stare down our dark, quiet street, praying to God there was a light at the end of this tunnel.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Trenton

Pouring an entire bottle of whiskey out into the sink while Camille watched felt a lot like putting a Band-Aid on a bullet hole—because, yeah, it’s technically effort, but let’s be real, unless that Band-Aid comes with a magic wand and a miracle, you’re still bleeding out. The liquid gold circled the drain, and I could practically hear my liver whispering,Finally, dumbass, you nearly killed me. The gurgling sound of wasted booze wasn’t the serenade I’d imagined for the start of my healing journey, but hey, sacrifices are sacrifices.

“Ready?” I asked, wiping my hands on one of the non-decorative dishtowels—the safe kind that wouldn’t get me murdered by my wife.

Camille nodded, her fingers nervously twisting the strap of her bag. Her hands seemed steady, but the faint pulse in her neck told a different story—or maybe it was my own heartbeat hammering away. Hard to tell when it felt like we were both teetering on a wobbly rope over the big, ugly pit of divorce.

She stopped abruptly. “Wait. Did you call Olive back?”

“I did. She let me have it, but we’re good now.”

Camille’s brows pulled together, those two little lines I both loved and feared forming between her brows. “Someone told her?”

“Ish. She was eavesdropping when Travis was updating Dad.”

She sighed. “The FBI’s got nothing on that kid. One of these days, she’s going to save you from yourself or die trying.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

She blinked, her mouth opening as she grew more offended on my behalf by the second. “I didn’t mean it like—”

“I know, baby doll,” I said. “I know. We used to joke before all this. Think we can get back there?”

“You haven’t called me that in nearly two months, so, yes,” she said, looking down at our luggage, then back to me, nodding her head. “Yes, we can.”

I patted my pockets and went through a mental list of things we absolutely couldn’t forget. “Chargers, deodorant, PJs, clothes to wear home, swim trunks, phones, cash, keys, IDs…”

“We’ve got it,” Camille said, opening the front door. “I made a list and checked everything off before packing. We’ve got everything.”

“Okay,” I said, following her out the door and then locking it behind me. I tapped a few buttons on my phone to queue up the security system and then watched as Dad waved to Camille from the street.

“Thanks for taking us to the airport,” I said, lifting our bags and putting them in the back.

“Not a problem, son.” Dad waved me away, moving with a careful, deliberate gait as he walked to the driver’s side and climbed in. “Happy to help,” he added as Camille slid into the middle of the bench seat, then waited for me to settle in beside her. “I’m just glad you two are taking a much-needed break,” he continued. “It’s important, you know.”

Dad paused before he pulled the gear shift into Drive, his hand resting on the cracked leather steering wheel. He turned slightly to face us both, his weathered face lined with the kind of wisdom that only came from living through storms he couldn’t see past at the time.

“You know,” he began, “marriage is everything. The good and especially the bad. What you learn by the time you’re my old age is that it’s the bad that makes the good so damn good. It’s about finding a way to put the pieces back together when life tries to shatter you, and realizing just how unbreakable you are once you’re whole again. You’ll get there. I have no doubt.”

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