Page 6 of The Breaking Point

He stands up too, “I’m so sorry, Kate. Please, I -.”

“What forgive you? If I had done this, would you have forgiven me?”

Aiden has no answer to that, “I’m so sorry.”

I laugh bitterly, “Me too.”

Chapter 3

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed; feet tucked under the hem of the plush white robe the hotel left for us. The silver gown is draped over the chair in the corner, a glittering reminder of the night that was supposed to celebrate us. I couldn't bring myself to wear the sleepwear I'd packed, it was lace and silk, black and sheer in all the right places. I picked it thinking it would make me feel sexy, irresistible, but now it just feels like a joke. I feel tired. Stripped. The robe is safer. Softer. Less of a lie.

Aiden’s lying on the sofa in nothing but his sleep shorts, his toned chest rising and falling in the dim light of the room. I say I don’t have time for the gym, because I don’t, but he does. He always has. The body of a man who never had to choose between an hour of cardio and helping the kids with homework, or between cooking dinner and folding laundry. A body built from freedom.

When the boys were little, Aiden was practically a weekend dad. And even that felt generous. They’d come to me with everyscraped knee, every nightmare, every permission slip and sick day. That didn’t change when we moved in together for good. I was still the default parent. He got to keep his gym. His friends. His hobbies. I barely held onto my friendship with Quinn, juggling the kids, my job, the mental load of being everything to everyone, trying to be some impossible version of Supermom.

All the while, apparently, my husband was out screwing strippers.

I blink, my throat tightening. The silence in the room starts to feel like a scream.

“Was she better?” I ask suddenly, my voice low but sharp, like glass against skin.

He sits up, moves to swing his legs off the sofa like he’s about to come to me, but I shake my head. Don’t. Just stay there. Separate. Far.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair, frustrated and wrecked. “It wasn’t about her. It was about me. My insecurities. My fear. You have no idea how much I regretted it.”

I laugh, but it’s hollow. “Regret doesn’t erase what you did, Aiden. You still did it.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. “I was stupid. I was drunk and scared, and I thought, I don’t know. That I’d already ruined things by pushing you away. That I wasn’t good enough for you, for the life we had. The guys pushed me, and I let them. I made the worst mistake of my life.”

I look down at my bare knees, then at the wedding ring on my finger, and twisting it. “Do you think I wasn’t curious?” I ask, voice rising slightly. “That I didn’t wonder what it would be liketo go on an actual date without kids and bills and baggage? To sit across from someone who doesn’t know me as ‘the mom’ or ‘the scheduler’ or ‘the one who handles everything’?”

His head lifts, eyes finding mine, but I don’t look away.

“You think men didn’t hit on me?” I say, louder now. “At work? At the grocery store? In the goddamn parking garage? But I said no. Every time. Not because I wasn’t tempted, not because I didn’t want to remember what it felt like to be seen, really seen, but because I made a promise.”

Aiden stands slowly, tension radiating off of him. “So did I.”

“Then you broke it,” I say, final and unforgiving. “You broke it before we even stood at that altar.”

He nods, like he knows what he did.

I wipe under my eye before a tear gets the chance to fall. “I used to think the scariest thing that could happen was losing you. But now? Now I think the scariest thing is knowing I never really had you in the first place.”

His face crumples, the words hitting something soft and sore inside him. “You have me,” he says, stepping closer again. “All of me. I was just a kid who made a mistake.”

I scoff, pushing myself to stand. “You were twenty-four, Aiden. Twenty-four. You had a job, a car, a future. That’s not a kid.”

“I wasn’t ready,” he says, and it sounds weak even to him. “I didn’t know how to handle all of it. I got scared. That night. God, that night, I wasn’t thinking straight.”

I stare at him, my chest hollow and tight. “You know how old I was when I had Jackson?”

His mouth opens, but I don’t give him the chance.

“Eighteen,” I say. “I was a teenager. I had no future. No plan. My parents was three states away. And you…” I swallow, sharp. “You turned off your phone.”

“I apologized for that,” he says, softer now.

“No.” I shake my head slowly. “No, Aiden. You said you were sorry your phone was off. That you were taking an exam, That’s not an apology. That’s an excuse. Just like ‘I was drunk.’ Just like ‘The guys made me.’ Just like every other way you’ve managed to avoid looking at the mess you made.”

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