Page 58 of If You Stayed

“Just say you’re sleeping with my husband in my bed while smiling in my face and making me maple-glazed bacon.”

“It’s complicated.”

“It’s not. You slept with my husband. That’s the least complex thing ever to exist.”

“He said… He said you two weren’t happy.” The tears began to flow down her cheeks, and I hated her for crying. What did she have to be sad about? Not only was she paid well for her services, but she also was getting bonuses from my husband. If anything, she should’ve been thrilled. A solidpaycheck and orgasms. A win-win.

“Oh, okay. That’s good to know. I just wasn’t aware that my unhappiness opened up the right for you to sleep with him in my bedroom.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen. It was an accident.” She lowered her head and wiped away her tears. “I can quit if you’d like—”

“Yes,” I cut in. “I’d like that. After you finish Ava’s eggs Benedict. She loves them.”

She nodded. “Right. Of course. Not a problem.”

I started to walk off but turned toward her. “Lena?”

“Yes?”

“We’re not happy, Henry and me. But I did have the stupid idea that you and I were friends. I think that’s what hurts the most.”

We all ate brunch together. I pretended I was okay, and Lena pretended that she wasn’t going to quit within the next few hours.

I spent the remainder of the day with Ava, reading our novels and discussing them during snack breaks. That brought me the comfort I needed the most. Whenever I felt lost and alone, that girl brought me home again with her laughter and love.

13

Kierra

I hated flowers.

My husband’s apology of choice was always flowers. Roses, to be specific.

Henry grew up in an unstable home. Sometimes, I wondered if that was why he was the way he’d been toward me. So hot and cold. His father was abusive toward his mother and beat her until the day he died. During a night of drinking, Henry once told me he was happy his father was dead so his mother could finally live a happy life. He told me he’d lived his whole life being afraid of the man who raised him. It wasn’t often that my husband shared his emotions with me. He hardly talked about how he grew up. His most tender moments came when he was drunk, as if he didn’t even realize he was letting his shields down.

His father, Jack, never laid a hand on Henry. He never understood why, but I knew the moment I’d met Jack Hughes. That man adored other men; it was women he found fault in. Jack thought his gender was the smarter of the two andthat a woman’s place was in the kitchen or on her knees—Jack’s words, not mine. If misogyny was a person, his name was Jack Hughes. I’m not saying Jack was attracted to men; he just didn’t like women that much. He looked down on the whole sex in such a demeaning way. As a therapist myself, I could’ve gone into all the reasons why he was the way he’d been, but just because people had reasons for the way they were didn’t mean that they had excuses.

I had the firm belief that if we excused people from their actions due to their personal traumas, we’d end up with a domino effect of passing on trauma to every single person. Even with his reasons, they didn’t excuse Jack for his harmful ways.

When I first met him—the first and last time before he died—he told me I was a wasted seed unless I gave Henry another child. In his head, the only reason for a woman’s existence was to bear children for the man to raise. Jack called me a weak, stupid woman when I mentioned I wasn’t certain I wanted to have children. Henry cussed him out for the comment, yelling so loudly that his veins were popping out of his neck. I’d never seen a man so angry, and a part of me felt protected in that moment. He stood up for me to the man who raised him, the man he’d always feared. That felt important. It made me feel safe.

Henry apologized to me the whole ride home. He told me he never wanted me to see him lose his temper like that—where rage met the deepest forms of heartache. That was the first time I’d seen him cry. I remembered him falling apart once we got to the house, and him wrapping me in his arms, tellingme that he never wanted me to see him in such an angry state. That he never wanted to raise his voice toward anyone, like his father had done Henry’s whole life.

Oddly enough, Jack seemed proud of his son for standing up to him—for shouting the same way Jack seemed to shout at Henry’s mother, Tamera. He smirked as if thinking, “That’s my boy.” That’s why I figured Jack never laid a finger on Henry—because he held a part of his DNA. His poor wife, however, was a punching bag.

We didn’t go to the funeral for Jack. All Henry did was light a cigar and smoke it on the back patio the night of his father’s service. “I hope he burns down there,” Henry muttered before putting out his cigar.

It took years for Henry to lose his temper again.

We started visiting his mother a lot more. To this day, Ava still visited with Tamera every weekend. The two were as close as close could be, and I loved that. I loved Tamera. Even with everything she’d been through, her heart never hardened. If anything, after Jack’s passing, she found ways to give more love away.

Over time, I’d noticed during our visits that Henry began to nitpick things about Tamera’s home. How unorganized it had been and how old-fashioned the property was. He offered time and time again to buy her a new house or to renovate her current one, but she wasn’t interested. That only annoyed Henry more. Tamera didn’t think much of it and waved off her son’s demeaning comments. Sure, Tamera was a bit of a hoarder, but she seemed comfortable with her collections. Sheknew exactly where everything was, too.

I think after Jack’s passing, she went out and bought everything that her husband told her she could never have. I thought it was fine and brave to live fully as herself after years of being a shadow to a man’s wrath. Who was I to tell her how to live her life? I figured women who lost so much of themselves to a man deserved happiness more than most—no matter how it looked to others.

One night Henry asked me to come over and help organize Tamera’s home. He said it wasn’t safe for Ava to be staying over there when there was so much junk.

What he called junk, Tamera called treasures.

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