I Forgot My Cheating Husband, Then He Begged

I walked Milo to school myself the next morning.

He kept glancing up at me the whole way, like I might vanish between one crosswalk and the next.

"You don't have to come in," he said at the gate. "Other moms just drop off."

"Then I'll just drop off."

He hesitated. Then he squeezed my hand once, fast, and ran inside.

...

Julian knocked at ten.

I opened the door, and for a second my brain refused him.

The Julian I remembered was twenty-four. Paint on his jeans. Hair too long. A grin that looked like trouble.

This man was broad through the shoulders, clean-shaven, in a navy coat that fit like it had been built on him. There was gray at his temples. Lines near his eyes.

"Hey, Ellery."

Nobody had called me that in fifteen years. I knew it the way you know a song from childhood.

"You got old," I said.

He laughed. Same laugh. Low, then breaking upward at the end. "You didn't. That's rude, by the way."

He stepped inside, set a paper bag on the table, and tucked a pen behind his ear without thinking. My throat tightened.

"You still do that."

"Do what?"

I tapped my own ear.

He reached up, found the pen, and smiled at it like it had betrayed him. "Some things stick."

We sat. He didn't crowd me. He just watched, patient, the way he used to watch a sketch before he touched it.

"Tell me the worst part first," I said.

He blinked. "That's my line."

"I know. I stole it."

His jaw worked. "The worst part is you stopped calling. Year two. I sent letters. You sent one back. It said you were happy and I should stop."

"Was I happy?"

"You tell me."

I opened my mouth. The room tilted.

Black spots bloomed across my vision. My knees went soft as wet paper.

"Maren—"

I pitched forward. His arms caught me before the floor did, solid and warm, and my face pressed into his chest. He smelled like cedar and cold air.

"Did you eat?" His voice was sharp now. "Maren. Did you eat today?"

"Coffee."

"Coffee isn't food." He half-carried me toward the sofa. "You have a concussion and you skipped—"

His heel caught the rug.

We went down together. He hit the cushions on his back. I landed on top of him, my hands flat on his chest, and his lips grazed my forehead.

Neither of us moved.

His heart was hammering under my palm. Fast. Faster than mine.

Then I scrambled sideways, and he sat up so quickly he nearly knocked the lamp over.

"Sorry," I said.

"Don't." He dragged a hand down his face. He grabbed the paper bag, pulled out a croissant, and shoved it at me. "Eat. Please."

I took a bite. He watched me chew like his life depended on it.

"Julian."

"Yeah."

"What was that?"

He stared at the carpet for a long moment.

"When you get close to me," he said quietly, "it's hard to act like just a friend."

I didn't answer. I just kept eating, because my hands needed something to do.

...

That afternoon, he drove me to pick up Milo.

My son came out the gate and stopped dead at the sight of a stranger.

"Milo, this is Julian. An old friend."

Julian crouched to his level. "Your mom says you like space."

Milo's eyes narrowed. "Maybe."

"Did you know there's a planet where it rains glass? Sideways. At five thousand miles an hour."

Milo's mouth fell open. "No way."

"HD 189733b. Look it up."

"That's not even a real name."

"It's a terrible name. Scientists are bad at naming things."

Milo laughed. A real, loud, little-boy laugh. I hadn't heard it once since I'd woken up.

Then a black sedan pulled to the curb.

Grant got out. He looked at me. At Milo, leaning against Julian's knee. At Julian.

His face went white, then dark red.

"Who the hell is this?"

"A friend," I said.

"A friend." He walked toward us, slow. "You walk out of the hospital, you ignore my texts, and the next day you're playing house outside my son's school?"

"Our son."

"Who is he, Maren?"

Julian rose to his feet. "Julian Hawthorne. We went to school together."

"I didn't ask you." Grant planted a hand on Julian's chest and shoved.

I moved before I decided to. I stepped between them, my back to Julian.

"Don't touch him."

Grant stared at me like I'd slapped him. "You're protecting him? From me?"

"Yes."

His fist came over my shoulder.

It cracked against Julian's cheekbone. Julian's head snapped to the side. A mother nearby screamed. Milo grabbed my coat with both hands.

Julian didn't swing back. He touched his face, looked at the blood on his fingers, and then looked at me.

His voice came out soft. Almost kind.

"Don't blame him, Maren. My face can take a hit. It's fine."

Grant's chest was heaving. "Get away from my family."

I turned to face him fully. Parents had stopped on the sidewalk. Phones were out.

"Touch him again," I said, loud enough for all of them, "and I'm calling the police."

Grant froze.

I could see it hit him. The way his hand dropped. The way his eyes searched my face for the woman who used to apologize for his temper. Who used to smooth his collar and say it's okay, you're stressed.

He couldn't find her.

"Maren," he said, and his voice cracked on it.

I took Milo's hand and walked to Julian's car without looking back.

...

At the hotel, Milo bounced on the bed. He talked nonstop. Glass rain. Black holes. Whether Julian knew how many moons Jupiter had.

I pressed ice into a towel and watched him.

"You're really happy today."

"Yeah."

"Why, baby?"

He stopped bouncing. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and picked at the blanket.

"Because it's the first time," he said, "I felt like I was more important to you than Dad."

The towel slipped from my hand.

I crossed the room and pulled him into my lap, too big for it now, all elbows and knees. He went stiff, then melted.

"Listen to me," I whispered into his hair. "You will never have to compete for me again. Not with him. Not with anyone. Do you hear me?"

His voice was muffled against my shoulder. "Promise?"

"I promise."

...

He fell asleep at nine.

At ten, my phone lit up. Unknown number.

A photo. Grant in a dim apartment, sleeves rolled, holding a bowl of soup to a woman's lips. Dark hair. A delicate wrist.

Another photo. Grant asleep in a chair beside her bed.

Then a message.

He came straight to me after the school thing. He said you've gone crazy. Don't worry, Maren. I'll take good care of him. I always have.

—Dahlia

My stomach rolled. I tasted the croissant again, sour at the back of my throat.

I didn't type a word back. I blocked the number and set the phone down like it was dirty.

Then I picked it up again and called Tessa.

She answered on the first ring. "Are you okay? I saw a video. Someone posted it. Grant punched a guy?"

"Tessa."

"Maren, talk to me."

I looked at my son, curled on the bed, one hand still reaching toward my empty pillow.

"I've decided," I said. "I'm getting a divorce."