Page 8 of The Breaking Point

He nods, slowly. Broken. Silent.

And I sit there, wrapped in a robe that suddenly feels too thin, too fragile for a body carrying this much ache, next to a man I once believed would never break my heart. Not like this.

But he did.

And the part that hurts most is knowing I still want to believe he didn’t.

Chapter 4

I’m wearing a sundress, one of the few things in my suitcase that doesn’t look like lingerie in disguise. It clings in all the wrong ways because I’m not in the mood to feel desirable. I’m at the hotel bar downstairs, which is open to the public, so even at this late hour, there’s a steady foot traffic of travellers and locals looking for a nightcap or a story to tell tomorrow. I’m not here for either. I’m just here because I couldn’t sit in that room with him anymore.

I don’t care that I’m sitting alone, sipping whisky I can’t stand. I hate it but since I'm in a hating mood, it’s hitting just the right spots. I told Aiden not to follow me, and he didn’t. My bags are still upstairs, along with the dress I took off and the life I used to believe in.

We’re not going to Bora Bora. That much is clear. But we can’t go home either. My parents are there with the kids, watching them for the week. Jack and Alex have school and routines. It made sense to let them stay at our house instead of disrupting everything. A decision I agreed to. A decision I regret now. Because going home doesn’t mean comfort. It means pretending.

He said it only happened once. But don’t they all say that? Cheaters. God. I remember the woman who answered his phone when I called, back when Jack was a few months old. She laughed like I was the punchline to a joke I didn’t know I wasin. Aiden said she was his roommate’s girlfriend. Swore it. Said I was overthinking. Said he’d never do that to me.

He never let me visit campus. Not even once. Every time I suggested a weekend away for just us, no diapers, no spit-up, no cartoons, he’d dodge it. Come up with some excuse about his classes or a project or his roommate being around. He always came to me, never the other way around.

I went to college too, but mine wasn’t normal. Mine came with the single mom package. I stayed home with the baby. Got extended deadlines. No attendance requirements. The school bent over backwards just to keep me enrolled, because I was a statistic they didn’t want to lose. Professors offered grace. Advisors offered coffee. Strangers offered more help than Aiden ever did.

He didn’t get it. He never got it. I didn’t want to visit campus to mark my territory, I wanted to feel like I wasn’t a mother for a weekend. Just a girl. His girlfriend. His date. Someone who mattered. I love my kids, I do, more than anything. But I didn’t get to enjoy my college years. They weren’t mine to enjoy.

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve gotten drunk, and I’m including this one. If it wasn’t for Quinn, I'm pretty sure I would’ve dropped out when I got pregnant with Alex.

A glass thuds beside mine. I don’t have to look to know someone just took the seat next to me. There are at least three other empty stools at the counter, which means this is intentional. It won’t be the first time I get hit on tonight, and it won’t be the last. I’m drunk. I’m heartbroken. Part of me wonders if I should say yes. Follow someone to the back, press my body into a stranger, and call it even.

Then apologize to my husband tomorrow. Blame the alcohol. Pretend it wasn’t me. If only that were me.

“Kate,” a voice says, low and close.

I turn my head and blink.

Grant.

Of course. Just what I need.

“Hello, Grant.” My words are steady enough, but my voice isn’t sober. He hears it too.

Arching an eyebrow, he sips his drink with far too much ease. “What are you doing down here? Shouldn’t you be upstairs celebrating ten years of marital bliss?” Then he smirks. “Unless you’re already done.”

His voice isn’t cruel. Just casual, in the way we usually spar with each other, dry and biting but mostly harmless. Usually, I’d meet him halfway with some witty jab, throw sarcasm over my shoulder and wait for him to catch it. But tonight, I don’t have it in me.

I stare straight ahead at the bottles behind the bar, the glint of amber and gold under dim lights. The waiter slides another glass towards me.

I decide to be honest.

“Nah,” I say, voice low but sharp, “I’m just trying to decide whether or not I’m going to leave my husband for screwing a stripper the day before our wedding.”

There’s a long pause. Grant doesn’t say anything right away. He shifts, slightly, and for the first time since he sat down, I feel his eyes fully on me. Not teasing. Not amused. Just... watching.

“You’re serious,” he says finally.

I nod. “Dead serious.”

“Jesus, Kate.”

“Yeah. That’s about the reaction I had.” I sip the whisky, this time forcing it down. It stings less than it did before. Or maybe I’m just getting used to the burn. That should probably worry me.

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