Page 23 of Open Secrets
By the time I’m done, he’s not gripping the armrests anymore. He even smiles, shy but proud, when I hand him the mirror.
“There,” I say, straightening. “Better?”
He nods, then mumbles a soft, “Thank you.”
The mom mouths it too, gratitude spilling out in silence.
This. This is why I do it. This is the part of my life that works.
Here, I’m Dr. Connelly. Here, I’m competent. Steady. Needed.
Not crazy. Not hysterical. Not someone who needs fixing.
“Drinks after shift?” Debra asks as we’re wiping down the last tray, her brows raised in a way that’s more statement than question. She’s been with me long enough to know my tells.
I hesitate, the wordnostill instinctive on my tongue. For years, I turned down every offer. Always rushing home, always saving my scraps of energy for the house, the kids, Lyle. But now? Now I say yes. Because I need it.
The bar isn’t anything special—just a place close enough to stumble home from, where the bartenders know not to ask questions. We go there often enough that the low lighting and worn booths feel familiar. Safe.
It’s kind of stupid, really. Complaining about your healthy, alive husband when most of your friends lost theirs. Being an Army wife isn’t all casseroles and tear-stained goodbyes on the tarmac. It’s grit. It’s waking up at three a.m. to sick kids, bills overdue, a house falling apart, and still putting on a steady face so he doesn’t worry overseas.
We might not be out there with rifles, but we’re here—holding the line in our own way. Making sure our men come home to something worth coming home to.
Not that it feels fair to call it “our men” anymore. Because there are women too, serving just as hard. But I’ve noticed something: most of them are single. Or their husbands don’t last. Because there’s something about men, about the way they’re built, that doesn’t sit right with this life. They don’t want to be the one left behind. They don’t want to be the caretaker.
So it’s us. The wives. Shouldering it all. Laughing when we should be crying. Drinking cheap wine in kitchens while we swap stories, never saying the darkest part out loud: that sometimes, we wonder if it would be easier if we just left.
I swirl the amber in my glass and sip, the burn steadying me.
Here, with Debra, I can pretend for one hour that I’m normal.
“Okay,” she says, leaning in like she’s about to deliver state secrets. “So I went on this date last night, right? Super cute guy, tall, polite, opens the door for me, even paid for dinner. Real gentleman.”
I raise a brow, waiting. With Debra, there’s always abut.
“But at the end of the night…” She swirls her drink dramatically. “We’re kissing in his car, it’s all good, all smooth—then he just… finishes.”
I nearly spit my drink across the table. “Finished?”
“Finished.” She does this thing with her eyebrows—arched high, knowing—and that tells me exactly what he finished.
“Ugh,” I groan, pressing my palm to my forehead. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” She downs half her glass in one go. “Be happy you’re married and don’t have to deal with this crap. I mean—you deal with it, sure—but by choice. Not out of desperation.”
Her words sting sharper than she means them to. I look down at my drink, tracing the rim with my finger.
Debra winces, sighs. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I… Are you okay?”
I nod, though it feels like a lie. “I talked to Lyle about…” The words get stuck, heavy, like they’re not meant for anyone else’s ears.
Her eyes widen. “You did? Finally. What’d he say?”
I tilt my head, studying the ice melting in my glass. “He’s tired of the whole thing too, apparently. Said he was fine with ending it—the open marriage.”
“But…” she prompts, voice soft but insistent.
I take a long sip, then set the glass down harder than I mean to. “But when I exploded about it, it didn’t stop there. It… expanded. To everything else I’ve been holding in.”
