Andrew is very nice. Almost suspiciously nice. He looks at me sometimes a second too long. Like he’s assessing something. It used to make me uncomfortable. Now I’m reconsidering everything. Because if Andrew hadn’t insisted, I would be home right now.
Home.
Probably folding laundry. Probably kissing him hello like nothing in the world was rotting beneath us. Probably never knowing that he keeps his wedding ring on while he’s inside someone else. The thought settles in my stomach like something metallic. So really, Andrew deserves a thank-you card.
“Thank you for the career opportunity and accidental emotional devastation.”
The automatic doors slide open. The lobby smells expensive. Polished. I square my shoulders and let out a deep breath.
New city. New hotel.
Same name. Same marriage. Same mess.
If my marriage is over, the least I can do is enjoy the minibar.
CHAPTER 3
Mini Bar
Fuck the minibar.
I want a real drink. Not hotel-sized liquor and the illusion of comfort. I hit the elevator and ride down to the hotel bar, already imagining the bartender shaking something strong enough to numb a week’s worth of regret.
It’s Sunday. The Lord’s Day.
Maybe I should start going to church again. Sit in the back pew. Fold my hands. Pretend I still know the words. Maybe I’ll find my way back. Because God always seems to show up when your life is in ruins. When suffering is the only thing that feels honest.
I don’t know if I’d be welcomed, though. Not with this kind of anger sitting in my chest. Not with betrayal still clinging to my skin. I’m not sure what confession I’d even start with.
Forgive me, Father, for I have been blind.
It’s unsettling how quickly faith fades when life looks steady. When your marriage appears intact. When you mistake comfort for favor.
I didn’t lose belief. I just stopped reaching for it. Filed it away for emergencies and not for ordinary happiness. And now I’m reaching again. Not out of devotion but out of collapse. I used to think love meant I was protected. Now I’m not sure what it ever meant at all.
I order a Tequila and tip the shot back like I know what I’m doing. Like this is routine. It isn’t. Then I order another. “One more shot, please.”
The burn hits late and vicious. I choke on it, cough once, then try to swallow it down like I meant to do that. I am not a drinker. And my body is making that very clear. I also don’t smoke. I don’t do drugs. I don’t even allow myself a second cup of coffee because one feels indulgent enough.
Moderation has always been my thing. Control. Restraint. Is that why he cheated? I glance at the mirror behind the bar. My bun is collapsing. Black hair strands slipping loose. My mascara smudged just enough to make me look unhinged. There’s a faint crease in my blouse I didn’t notice before.
Is that a stain? Of course there is. God, Era pull yourself together. This is probably why he’s with someone else. Because of this version of you. The tired one. The careful one. The woman who folds laundry on Sundays. The woman who thought ordinary meant safe.
I slide the black hair tie off my wrist and pull it from my hair. It falls over my shoulders, long and dark. He used to love my hair down. I smooth it once, catching my reflection again. I look different. Not better. Just… less defeated.
Almost convincing.
Shot three burns going down. I check my phone again as if I’m expecting it to light up. Not with excuses but with desperation.
I made a mistake.
I love you.
Please come back.
I need to see you.
Something forgiving. Something that would make me drop everything and run back like none of this happened. Because I would. That’s the humiliating part. He doesn’t even know I saw. Which means the silence isn’t guilt because It’s normal.