Chapter 6
I backed away. One agonizing, silent step at a time. Down the hall. Down the stairs. Out the heavy oak door. I pulled it shut with a soft, undetectable click.
I walked like an automaton to my car, got in, and locked the doors.
I sat there in the driveway, my hands resting limply on the steering wheel, staring blankly through the windshield at the street. My eyes locked onto the silver Honda Civic with the dented bumper.
The understanding didn’t hit me all at once; it settled over me like a suffocating, freezing fog. That car had been there before. Not every day. Not even every week. But regularly. Specifically on Thursdays. How many Thursday afternoons had I driven past that dented bumper, my mind preoccupied with commercial lease agreements and property tax assessments, and thought absolutely nothing of it? How many times had I waved to Mrs. Patterson, assuming the silver car belonged to one of her piano students, while a twenty-something woman was walking into my home and getting into my bed?
How long had my entire reality been a fiction?
My phone buzzed in my purse, a harsh, violent vibration that made me jump. I pulled it out.
A text from Michael. Hey babe. When will you be home? Can’t wait to hear your news.
A wave of nausea hit me so hard I had to open the car door and lean out, gagging dryly toward the pristine landscaping. He was texting me from our bed. He was likely lying next to her, typing those words with the same fingers that had just—
May you like
I slammed the door shut, shoved the car into reverse, and tore out of the driveway.
I didn’t know where I was going. I just drove, navigating the streets of Portland blindly, the tears finally coming, hot and blinding and furious. I ended up in the sprawling parking lot of Forest Park. I parked under a massive, dripping evergreen tree, turned off the engine, and just sat there.
