Page 12 of The Breaking Point

“What’d Aiden say?”

“The usual. I was drunk. It didn’t mean anything. I’m sorry,” I say, deadpan.

She studies me over the rim of her glass. “Did he cry?”

“Yeah,” I say, swallowing the burn in my throat.

Her expression tightens. She shifts closer, her voice softer now. “What happened?”

I stare at the dark red in my glass while answering her. “Apparently, they got kicked out of the bar and ended up in the strip club next door. He didn’t get a lap dance, which he was very proud to point out. But there was a dancer there who kept coming on to him. The guys egged him on, so he followed her to the back and… fucked her, well she fucked him on a sofa.”

She stares.

“Did he use pro—” she starts.

“Yeah,” I say, cutting her off. “I asked. He said yes. Whether that’s true or not, I don’t know. But I asked.”

She’s quiet for a beat, then sets her wine down carefully on the coffee table.

“Wow. I mean shit. I never thought that he…,” she says, lost for words. “So… what do you want to do?”

I sink deeper into the sofa, trying to disappear. “I don’t know. Am I overreacting? I mean, it happened ten years ago. Before we were even married.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Butafteryou got engaged.”

“Yeah.”

“After you promised each other forever.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

She leans back, crosses her arms. “Then no. You’re not overreacting.”

“But it’s been a decade. We have two kids, a life. A real life. Can I really throw that away over something that happened so long ago?”

She’s quiet again. Not because she doesn’t have an opinion, Quinn always has an opinion, but because she knows I’m not actually asking her to fix it. I’m asking her to sit with me while the world I thought I was living in dissolves into something unrecognizable.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I really don’t.”

She studies me for a second, then shifts her weight, curling both her legs underneath her. “Do you remember the first time I stayed over at your house?”

I nod, the memory hazy around the edges. “After our study session. Your ride bailed.”

Quinn was my assigned study partner when I was pregnant with Alex. I’d been pulled from classes and forced into bedrest, so the university set me up with someone to keep me from falling too far behind. She showed up twice a week, her backpack full of notes and attitude. She didn’t know me. I didn’t know her. But she came, even when I had to pause every five minutes because I needed to pee or lie down or sob over nothing.

She snorts now. “My ride didn’t bail.”

I blink, confused. “What?”

She looks over at me, eyes sharper than her voice. “Your grandma left that day. Drove out to see your aunt because Aiden was supposed to be home for the weekend.”

My stomach twists.

“I was in the kitchen when he called,” she continues. “Told you he couldn’t make it back. Said he had to study.”

I nod slowly, the pieces clicking into place like a puzzle I didn’t realize had been scrambled. I’d been lying on the couch, Jack napping on my chest. The call had been short. Clinical. And there had been something, laughter? in the background, but I hadn’t asked. I never asked back then.

“I heard the laughter,” she says quietly. “You hung up and told me your grandma wouldn’t be back until Sunday. You looked exhausted. Barely holding it together.”

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