My hands feel shaky and numb as I grip the steering wheel, turning swiftly out of the parking lot onto the street that runs past Sharon Lorentz’s office building. Heart hammering painfully in my chest, my pulse racing, I just start driving, having no idea where I’m going, not giving a shit. My mind splits in half, one part going into autopilot, steering and minding traffic, and the other part is miles away, stuck in a frenzied loop of rage and disbelief and misery.

What the hell is wrong with him? I thought I’d figured it out, thought I believed that he’d moved past it all, that it was a temporary obsession and he’d clawed his way out of it. But that was before I knew just how deep of a death spiral he’d plunged into. There’s a huge difference between what I thought his paranoia had driven him to—his suspicious attitude, the way he talked to me like he was a prosecutor and me the defendant—and the stuff I just found out he did.

It’s not only that I feel violated, grossly mistrusted, and deceived about who he is and what he’s capable of. I can’t believe he did something like that to me, yes, but he also did it to Mike. And to our kids, indirectly, by tearing us apart, creating uncertainty and confusion for them.

And then I became the bad guy, when I’d had enough and decided to end it. The unfairness of it all sends fresh flames of fury burning through my veins.

Well, I’m done now. I’m exhausted—drained and dispirited. I have nothing left. The final thin thread connecting me to that man has been severed, and now I need to focus on me, my kids, and our welfare and future.

Which means it’s time to set the ball rolling.

I spot a strip mall on my right up ahead, and flipping on my blinker, I brake and take the sharp turn into the driveway. Finding an empty spot under a tree at the far end of the lot, I pull in and stop, letting the engine run. Then I dig my phone out of my purse, find Beth in my contacts, and hit the Call button.

She answers on the fourth ring, her voice sounding brisk and chipper. “Hey, babe. What’s up?”

“How soon can you have the divorce papers ready for me to sign so you can file them?” I ask, watching the tree branches a couple of feet above my windshield, the way the leaves dance and sway in the breeze.

“Uh-oh,” my friend says slowly. “What happened?”

“I fucked him.” The words feel like they wrest themselves from my chest, making a wild escape, and I’m not sure why. Maybe because I feel like that’s why I’m here right now. If I hadn’t succumbed to that temptation, I wouldn’t have let him back in, wouldn’t have allowed him to seduce my mind as well as my body into thinking I could have him back in my life.

“Nooo—” Beth whines, a mournful protest.

“And we talked,” I go on, my phone pressed to my ear, “and things were going well. I mean, I thought maybe we’d be okay and that I wanted him back. So we just saw a counselor together, to get another perspective on it, you know?”

“Okay…?”

“Turns out there was stuff he’d never told me, and he was never going to tell me, except his therapist accidentally gave it away.”

As succinctly as I can, because I don’t want to drag out the rehashing of Logan’s lunacy, I tell her the details of what he did. I can’t help the images that flash in my mind as the words pour out, though: Mike’s nondescript SUV following me, parked and waiting while I ran errands, his big camera with its zoom lens ready in his lap.

What a tedious task that must’ve been for him. The most thrilling part was probably when I took Elliott to Mommy and Me Yoga and my father-in-law got to watch all those women in their tight yoga outfits, hauling their baby carriers around, Starbucks cups in hand, rings under their eyes, and hair in buns that were unintentionally messy.

Sheesh.

Seriously, though. Was he satisfied just waiting outside at times like that? How could he be sure the yoga instructor wasn’t a hot young guy that I was getting down and dirty with in the supply closet? With my baby carrier by our side?

Sloppy, Mike.

When I’m done, Beth is silent for a heartbeat or two. “You’re shitting me,” she utters flatly.

“I wish.”

Her breath whooshes loudly over the phone speaker. “He asked his dad to do it?”

“Yes,” I say, closing my eyes and massaging between my eyebrows, where it feels like a headache is brewing.

“What the hell?”

“Exactly.”

“Who does that?” my friend muses in disbelief.

“My husband,” I reply glumly. “Apparently.”

She pauses again. “That’s insane.”

“I know.” For some reason, my own words suddenly reverberate in my head, spoken to Mia just a few days ago: He’s kind of messed up. I still love him.

The first part is definitely true. I thought the second part was true, too. My heart squeezes, stealing my breath.

“Do you think I’m overreacting?” I ask Beth, chewing on my bottom lip.

“Babe, I wanted you to file ages ago,” she responds at once, her tone sharpening. “No, you’re not overreacting. Fuck him. You don’t need this shit in your life.”

Damn right I don't. Enough already.

“So how soon can you do it?” I ask.

“Sunday night?” She sounds apologetic. “I’m actually done with work for the day already. The kids and I are going to Legoland with my parents this weekend, and my mom would kill me if I worked, so I’m not even bringing my computer.”

“Okay,” I say, swallowing my disappointment, because I was hoping this would be a matter of hours, not days. “That’s fine.”

“I’ll text you when I’ve emailed you the docs so you can sign them online, and then I can file right away.”

“Thank you.”

My friend pauses, draws a breath. “Are you okay? I mean, I can cancel my trip, and we can meet up. You know I’m here if you need me.”

“Oh, no. I’ll be fine,” I reassure her, even though I’m not, and I won’t be anytime soon.

She seems doubtful and keeps pressing for a while longer, but I insist that I’ll be okay, and so we say goodbye and disconnect.

So that’s done then.

Now, what?

It’s a quarter past ten. I have a consultation in less than an hour. God. That sounds like the last thing I want to do right now. I know I need to just suck it up and be professional, but I’m not sure I’m capable. Truth is, I’m a mess. My thoughts keep bouncing all over the place, my focus is shot. How can I listen to potential new clients sharing their story with me when all I can think about is my own problems?

With heaviness in my chest and queasiness in my stomach, I do something I’ve never done before. I dig through my emails, find the number I need, and make the call to say I have to postpone. We reschedule for first thing on Monday, and the lady thankfully doesn’t sound at all upset, but that doesn’t help much, because I’m plenty upset on her behalf. Letting people down is not my MO.

So now I have almost four hours until I’m supposed to grab my kids from their nanny’s house. The evening stretches out before me. I’ll make dinner and try to get them to eat it. Or I can take them out somewhere and pretend I’ve got everything under control while the little monsters do everything they can to prove otherwise. Takeout is probably the best option.

Afterward they’ll wreck the house as usual, making mind-boggling messes in the blink of an eye, and I’ll try to hang on to my sanity until bedtime, after which I’ll have space to breathe again. Sitting in my house, where every room and every piece of furniture holds memories of him and what we used to have together.

I can’t do it. Can’t, don’t want to, might actually have some sort of breakdown if I’m forced to.

What are my options, though?

I’m not dumping them on Logan. That would require talking to him, and that’s not happening. Just the thought of hearing his voice right now makes want to break something. Preferably his face.

What about Miranda? My mind shies away from the idea immediately. She’s watched them overnight before, but always at my house, and she has her family visiting right now. I can’t even bring myself to ask, because she’d feel obliged to say yes, and that would be a crappy move on my part.

So that leaves one person. Who I also would prefer not to talk to right now.

I’m probably not as pissed at him as I should be. Maybe it’s because I have children of my own, know how primal is the urge to help them and make sure they’re safe and happy. For almost three decades, Mike’s entire life has revolved around his son. I understand why he’s developed those blinders. He’ll always prioritize Logan over me, and that’s as it should be.

There’s also the issue of Logan’s possible resurfaced memory of what his dad did to his mom. Although the idea of that causes my gut to clench, first of all, I don’t know if it’s true. But even if it is, he’s clearly not that man anymore. In fact, if it is true, that really explains a lot about him—how he never touches alcohol, how devoted he is to Logan, and how he’s never gotten involved with another woman.

If he did it, I’m willing to bet he regrets it as much as anyone has ever regretted anything.

So, yeah, even though my instincts are to keep my kids away from a man who could do something like that, the rational part of my brain knows that’d be hysterical. It would be ignoring years of him being a beloved, loyal, and trusted pillar of my kids’ lives.

So my father-in-law it is then. I bring up his name on my phone, and while it’s dialing, I connect it to the car speakers. For some reason it feels like it’ll be easier to talk to him without having his voice directly in my ear.

The ringing stops, and there’s a split second’s silence before his greeting rumbles within the confines of the vehicle. “Hi, Paige.”

“Hey.” I try to wet my tongue, my mouth suddenly dry. “I was wondering, could you watch the kids tonight? You’d have to pick them up from Miranda’s at three and then stay the night.”

Mike hesitates, and the quiet feels heavy. “Is there a problem?”

I open my mouth to offer a white lie, but then a thought hits me, giving me pause. “Have you talked to Logan?”

“Yeah,” my father-in-law replies tersely. “He called a little while ago.”

I clench my teeth, turning slightly as I detect movement by my window. It’s someone getting into the car next to me.

“Then I’m pretty sure you know there’s a problem,” I tell Mike in a low tone while I observe the people disappearing into their car.

He heaves a sigh. “Paige…”

“I don’t want to hear it, Mike. Not now.” Impatiently, aggressively, I ask again. “Can you watch them?”

No answer comes from the other end for so long that I feel compelled to give him an explanation of sorts. “I don’t think I can be a good mom tonight,” I confess reluctantly, and then I harden my tone as I add, “Plus you owe me, don’t you think?”

“Of course I’ll watch them,” he says at last, his voice thick with what I think is regret. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As I reach for the button on the screen to end the call, his voice rings out again, sounding severe. “Please don’t do anything stupid.”

“I never do,” I tell him automatically, and then I disconnect—and continue sitting there in the strip mall parking lot, my car idling.

That’s so fucking true, though, isn’t it? I don’t make stupid decisions. I always, always weigh consequences before I act, and rarely do I think anything impulsive or questionable is worth the risk.

Poor little Good Girl. Logan’s words echo, from so long ago. They needled me then, drove me into an action that started something I thought for so long was the best thing that had ever happened to me.

Maybe something rash and stupid is exactly what I need right now. I proved Logan wrong back then, and I want to do it again. But this time, instead of accepting him into my life, it’ll be to do the opposite. This thing I want to do, it has to have meaning. It has to hurt him, like he’s hurt me. I’m pretty sure it’d feel fucking good to hurt him.

My gaze falls on my briefcase, and all of a sudden I remember the business card I tucked into one of the small front pockets last week. Popping the button, I dig my hand in and pull it out.

Graham Weber, MD, FACC, Interventional Cardiology. Address, email, and phone number.

Well, that’s perfect, isn’t it? My husband spent almost two years indulging his paranoia, accusing me of sharing myself with another man.

It’s time for him to find out what it feels like to have his fears become reality.