Page 3 of All I Want For Christmas Is You

Ice water flushed through her veins. Her reality spun so wildly, so incomprehensibly, she felt nauseous. “Your boss?”

“She’s not my boss. I’m consulting for her.”

“That’s…God.” She pressed a hand to her heart as if she could soothe the rapid beating. What is happening right now? “Are you telling me you’re leaving your wife of twenty-seven years for a woman you’ve known three months?”

“Yes.” Oddly, he didn’t seem embarrassed or ashamed. It was more like he was dreading her outburst. “I know you’re angry, and I don’t blame you. But I’m finally happy.”

None of his words landed. They bounced off the walls of her skull and slammed into each other. She could see shards of truth but none of the pieces fit together. “What have you done, Scott?” She didn’t want to be vulnerable right now—it’s my goddamn birthday—but she needed answers. “You don’t love me anymore?”

“No, I do. Of course, I do. We’ve been together for nearly thirty years. We’ve raised kids. But at this point, we’re nothing more than friends. You know that. With Petra, it’s different. I feel alive for the first time—”

“In seven years. Yes, I know. I know, because I’ve had a front-row seat to your despair, your anger, and your complete unwillingness to reinvent your life.”

“That’s right.” He spat out the words, his ugly side rearing. “I’ve hated my life. But now, I have a chance to get out of this fucking mess, and I’m taking it.”

“And what about me?”

“I’ll continue to pay the rent on this apartment and your car payment.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. Jesus, Scott.” She got up, studying him across the ottoman. He must feel shame…remorse…something. But she couldn’t detect even a hint of it. He was dead serious. Her husband was literally abandoning her. “We’ve lost everything. We have no money in our savings account, and you’re going to leave me?”

She waited for regret to wrench his features. For doubt, hesitation…any normal human reaction. But he remained steadfast.

Panic got a grip on her nervous system and squeezed. “You don’t abandon your family like this. I’m your wife.”

“I know that. You think I don’t know it’s a shitty thing to do? But what’s the alternative? What we’re doing isn’t sustainable. Your job in a coffee shop is not going to solve any of our problems. You think we can live off your hourly salary when we’re in our nineties?”

“No. I think you can use your experience and your brains to create a business. Be entrepreneurial. You have to do more than apply for jobs.”

“I have a job. And as soon as we get VC money, I’ll be back on top.”

“With Petra.”

Let this be a cruel joke. Let him crack a smile and point a finger gun at her. “Gotcha.”

Let this be anything but her husband abandoning her when they had nothing but a garden apartment in Norwalk, Connecticut that ate up nearly half her salary.

With a patronizing expression, he tilted his head. “Come on. You know as well as I do we’re basically roommates at this point. We both deserve better.”

Rage set her in motion, and she rounded the ottoman. “Roommates don’t do your laundry and make your meals. Roommates don’t listen to every detail of your day and every conversation you had so you can feel seen and valued. They don’t play cheerleader to make sure you don’t fall into a depression you can’t get out of. I am not, nor have I ever been, a roommate.”

“Look, this is shitty, and I know it. But we’re in a death spiral, and I found an exit ramp. I have to take it.” Through the crack in his stern demeanor, she could see desperation. His gaze wandered out the window, the skin around his eyes pinching with abject fear. “I have to.” When he finally looked at her, he’d gone hard again. “And I hope you find one, too.”

She opened her mouth to let him know he was a heartless, careless asshole, to explain what life had been like for her working nonstop just to keep a roof over their heads—and not just in the coffee shop, but nights and weekends on her side business selling Christmas ornaments—all while watching him seethe with bitterness every day, staring at the television instead of creating job opportunities for himself.

But what was the point?

He’d crossed a line, and there was no coming back from it.

She wiped her face clean of emotion. “Okay.”

Oh, he liked that. He liked it a lot. His shoulders relaxed. “Right now, I’m going to pack a bag.”

Words continued to spew out of his mouth, plans, details, but she didn’t hear them over the roar of blood in her ears. Because this was happening. Her husband was leaving her.

With nothing but these four walls and the couch that still reeked of the beer someone spilled at one of Emerson’s high school parties.

He strode to the closet like the boat was sinking, and he had to find the one single life vest they owned. His leather weekend bag hit the floor with a smack. The sound tapped the base of her spine like a mallet, sending fear radiating throughout her body.

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