Avery Foye had given twenty-four years to one man.
Twenty-four years of cooking, cleaning, schedules, compromises and part-time jobs beneath her talents, so he could keep his shiny career intact, twenty-four years of minding the finances, their two children, the appointments—because he had often considered all of these things beneath him… Before that, a modest wedding. Before that, a modest ring.
Anything for hubby.
Anything for William.
And then last night, she had watched him walk out of a neon-colored club called something as ridiculous as the Toaster with two women as young as their daughter, laughing like he didn't have a cancer test result waiting to be opened.
And hours later, he lay down next to her on the bed, as if nothing had happened.
Nothing at all.
Now, six hours after they had both overslept—and who could guess why—she stood in their room, quietly seething. Her hands hovered over an open suitcase on the bed. She forced down the zipper of one of her husband's sweaters—too hard—and suddenly, the little handle broke off.
Bummer. He'd liked that one. He'd probably berate her later for her 'mistake', or even beat her, like he used to. But she couldn't help herself. She needed to get the anger out. It didn't matter how.
The bastard. He'd told her he was visiting his mother. That he needed to break the news about his possible cancer to her, even if she wouldn't remember. A clever lie, that. The old woman's Alzheimer's could have covered up his misdeed quite well.
She hoped the test was positive.
It was only by chance that she discovered what he'd been up to.
For a reason she only guessed at, he said that he'd decided to take the bus to the nursing home his mother was staying in. The old-fashioned way, as my mom would want,' he'd said, as they hadn't set foot on public transport in over a decade. And then, about an hour later, Avery had come to wonder if he was perchance stuck in a traffic jam, as had often happened in her younger years. She'd grabbed her tablet and looked up his location, and, lo and behold, it was worse than she'd thought—he'd gotten off at the wrong station entirely.
Or so she'd assumed.
Given his lack of experience taking the bus, she'd thought such a mistake wasn't out of the question. So she'd called him, over the phone, cheerful, ready to help him get back on track.
And then he'd told her that he'd just walked into the hospital lobby, and that past that point, he'd have to keep his phone turned off.
And Avery had stood in front of the kitchen counter, watching his little GPS dot mark a decidedly different location.
He had lied.
Not a clumsy lie.
Not a panicked lie.
A pre-planned lie.
But not all was lost.
Her first thought—because she always reached for the kindest possible interpretation first—was that perhaps he was planning some kind of surprise for her. A gesture of some kind. Something tender to soften the blow of the upcoming test results, should they turn out to be cancerous. It was a shame the surprise had been spoiled, but she couldn't fault him for trying.
For a full minute, she let herself believe it.
She let herself imagine him at a florist, picking out a bouquet. He hadn't done so in months.
Or at a bakery, ordering that coconut cake that he had found ridiculous, but that she had loved.
But … curious as she was, she kept watching … and the dot did not move in the direction of anything vaguely wholesome.
It stopped in front of a place called 'The Toaster'. Avery didn't even know what that could be until she saw the pictures. But then she did see them—the neon lights, the bar, the poles … and then the reviews.
She felt her stomach fold in on itself, reading those.
And her husband was there. And lying about it.
After about an hour, she grabbed her coat.
Then her keys.
Then she walked out the door, down the steps, and got in their car.
And once she was there, she saw the truth.
And she'd decided that if the cancer didn't kill him, perhaps she would.