Page 52 of Open Secrets
He takes it hesitantly, pulling it on, then reaches for his boxers. “It’s just… all the stuff we talked about, it’s still there. You’re still struggling with guilt, still doing everything for everyone. I just think you should—”
I narrow my eyes. “She said you had issues too.”
He nods. “I do. And I’m gonna go back to the Army therapist. He really helped me with survivor’s guilt before.”
I put a hand on his bicep, a quick squeeze. “I’m happy for you. It’s just—I don’t need to talk to anyone.”
I turn to walk away when his voice stops me. “That’s what Markus said. Now he has a DUI, a divorce, and court-mandated therapy.”
I pause but don’t turn around.
“Fine,” I mutter. “You wanna throw money at a therapist? I’ll still see her.”
The floor creaks as he comes closer. His hands slide gently onto my biceps, and he presses a kiss to my cheek. “Thank you.”
I blow out a breath. “Whatever,” I say, and walk out.
I head downstairs and get started on lunch. The kids won’t be home for another hour, but I’m starving. That’s what happens when you spend all morning having sex.
I huff out a laugh. I’d love to order pizza, but we don’t have money to throw around—especially now that we’re spending it on a therapist we don’t need.
Lyle is a good husband. When he’s here. He’s attentive, he takes me on dates, he’s present with the kids. The only complaint Iever had was that he was never around, always running off. But now… now I don’t have that.
My issues? They’re normal. Everybody’s got issues. Tell me one person who doesn’t.
So my mother left me. And my father. And my in-laws. And my husband.
But that last part isn’t true anymore.
So, I’m fine.
I’m so busy defending myself in my head that I don’t notice the smell until it’s too late. The eggs are blackened, curling in the pan, smoke snaking toward the ceiling.
I burned breakfast-for-lunch.
I just stand there, staring at the ruin while the smoke fizzles out in little angry wisps.
On cue, the fire alarm shrieks to life, drilling through my skull.
With a cry of frustration, I grab the pan and hurl it at the counter. It clatters hard, eggs splattering across the tile, the sound barely audible in the already too-loud kitchen.
Footsteps thud down the stairs. I lean against the counter, hanging my head.
“So… Dr. Nina.” I say looking up.
Lyle stands in the doorway, cautious but steady. “I already called. She can pencil you in tomorrow before lunch.”
I nod once. “Good.”
Without another word, he steps around me and crouches by the mess. He moves quietly, picking up the pan, soaking it in the sink like this is just another chore.
I glance back over my shoulder. “You don’t have to do that.”
He sets the pan in the sink, wipes his hands on a dish towel, and squeezes my shoulder. “I do.” Then he bends down again, paper towels in hand, scrubbing at the floor.
I watch him scrub the floor, the sound of paper towels dragging against tile filling the kitchen. By the time the mess is gone, the air smells like smoke and lemons from the spray bottle, but not like eggs anymore.
This time Lyle makes the food. We eat in silence, then clean up in silence. The clink of plates, the scrape of silverware, the rush of water in the sink—none of it fills the space between us.
