The Escalade is already there when I pull into the parking lot in front of Sharon Lorentz’s office building, and as I take the spot next to it, I see that it’s idling and Paige sits in the driver’s seat, using her phone. She notices me as soon as I unfold myself from my Audi, and immediately she turns off her engine and climbs out.

Rounding the back of my car, I meet her in the space between the vehicles, momentarily struck and rendered mute by her appearance. Like me in my suit, she’s dressed for work, wearing a mid-thigh white pencil skirt and a shimmering, sleeveless dove-gray top. The outfit hugs her exactly right, emphasizing her subtle curves, showing off the slender perfection that is her body.

Gorgeous, sexy, brilliant woman. My wife. Still.

“Ready for this?” I ask briskly, curving my lips.

She blows out a breath. “Sure. As much as someone about to have a root canal is ready to not be in pain anymore.”

I release an amused snort. “Nice analogy.”

“I thought so.”

“Hey.” I move in closer, reaching up to cup her cheek, brushing my thumb across her skin as I murmur, “I love you.”

I see her throat working, and her reply sounds breathless, quiet. “I love you, too.”

Leaning down, I touch my forehead to hers, our noses caressing. “The other night was good.”

“It was,” she agrees with a faint smile that seems almost secretive, kind of smug, and I’m wondering which memory is making her happier: the family dinner at our house Wednesday night, the evening of games and laughter with the kids afterwards, or the adult playtime that followed?

For myself, as much as I adore my kids, it’s definitely the latter. I can’t even say how long it’s been since we fucked on the bed in the master bedroom in that house, when was the last time I spent the night with her there, woke up next to her in the room that used to be ours together. Something that used to be such a regular, everyday thing is now unusual, spectacular, and kind of bizarre.

There was no awkwardness, though. We’re easing back into couple-hood with a comfort that’s proving all my assertions correct. We belong together. Two halves of a whole.

I press a lingering, insistent kiss on her lips, and she parts them and returns the pressure, soft and open and yielding, and it’s so hot and so sweet it steals my goddamn breath away.

Then we break apart, and I take her hand as we walk together toward the office building. We enter and ascend the stairs in silence, our shoes tapping and clicking on the steps. Inside the reception area, I only nod at the receptionist, since she knows me well enough by now. We were lucky to get an appointment this quickly, only four days after I called. They’d had a cancellation.

“The kids are with Miranda?” I ask after we take a seat on the small couch. This weekend is mine with the kids, but we’ve already made plans to spend it together. Tomorrow we’ll probably end up taking them to the beach.

“Yeah,” says Paige, crossing her legs, allowing me to ogle the way her skirt rides up her thigh. “Her daughter and grandkids are visiting. The girls were excited.”

“I bet. You’re working after this?”

“I have a consultation, yeah. Guardianship case.” She adjusts her purse in her lap. “Have you heard anything about Stu and Caroline?”

I compress my lips. “No. It’s Hammer’s shit show now, but he hasn’t been in the office much. Plus he’s still pissed at me for refusing to have anything more to do with Stu.”

“Well, Caroline called me to tell me what was going on.” She pauses, like she’s not sure how much she can share with me. “She’s turned in the evidence. They know where her accountant is, and he’ll most likely be arrested soon. But apparently Johanna’s nowhere to be found.”

“She’s taken off?”

“Seems like it.”

My breath whistles out. “Stu warned her.”

“Probably.”

“Dumb ass,” I mutter, shaking my head. He could’ve used Johanna as a bargaining chip, cut a deal in return for testifying against her. He could’ve blamed it all on her, for Christ’s sake, said she was the mastermind. Everyone would’ve believed him, because Stuart Garnett couldn’t plot his way out of a roundabout.

He’s gonna go to prison, and his biggest crime? Being an unmitigated moron.

Sharon comes to fetch us herself, appearing in her doorway, wearing clothes in the usual explosion of colors, except today it’s tie-dye. She smiles and ushers us into her office, where Paige and I settle down on the leather love seat. Last time we were on this piece of furniture, we chose one corner each, sitting as far apart as possible. Today we’re so close our bodies are pressed together, and I take her hand again, threading her fingers with mine.

Mostly to reassure myself that we’re okay still, that we’re in a good place right now, and this session is going to be a positive one.

Also because I always want to touch her, and now that she allows it again, you bet your ass I’ll be taking advantage of that every chance I get.

“It’s good to see you again, Paige,” Sharon says as she takes the armchair, clipboard in lap and pen in hand. Paige answers politely, and while they engage in some small talk, I tuck my thumb in between our hands, stroking her palm and feeling her tense slightly. God, the woman is one big erogenous zone.

And the last thing I need right now is an erection. Shit. I shift uncomfortably, wondering if anyone will notice if I button my jacket again.

“Before we start,” the older woman says, “Logan, anything you and I have talked about in private is of course confidential, and I can’t discuss it with Paige without your permission. So if you’d like me to do that, I need you to sign this.”

She pulls a sheet out from the top of the papers on her clipboard, scoots forward in her chair, and leans over to slide it across the coffee table at me. I read it over quickly, find that it’s a standard statement of consent, and so I snatch a pen out of the cup of pens on the table—it has a smiling emoji on it—and sign and date the bottom of the page. If my therapist can’t reveal anything I’ve discussed with her, that kind of defeats the purpose of this whole thing, doesn’t it?

“Thank you,” Sharon says as I reach over the table, handing it back to her. Tucking the paper into the bottom of her stack, she offers us a professional smile, addressing Paige, “Well, I have to admit I wasn’t expecting this. Last time I talked to Logan, I got the feeling a reconciliation between you two still wasn’t likely.”

Exchanging a glance with my wife, I answer, “At that point it really wasn’t. But last week things changed.”

“Okay.” Clicking her pen, letting it hover over her notepad, the older woman continues looking at Paige. “Well, I’ve gotten to know Logan very well by now, but you, Paige, I only know from what he’s told me.”

Paige lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. “Oh, great.”

Sharon’s mouth dimples, her lips tight. She hates sarcasm and has often lectured me on how it’s an unproductive defense mechanism, but thankfully she’s too smart to say anything. I’m sure she senses what I know: that Paige would probably jump at the first excuse to bail right now.

“So, Paige,” the counselor says, scrawling a quick note. “Logan said things changed last week. How did they change for you?”

My wife takes her time answering, probably pondering how to respond. I squeeze her hand in encouragement. This isn’t easy for her, talking about private issues with someone who’s essentially a stranger to her. Which is why I was so happily surprised when she suggested it on Sunday.

Clearing my throat, I bring her hand into my lap, resting our tight clasp on my thigh.

“I guess,” she says at last, “some of the things he told me made me see our problems from a different angle? Like, I started to understand it better, why he did the things he did.”

Sharon’s gaze flicks up for a second. “What things are you referring to specifically?”

“The questions he asked and the comments he made,” Paige answers, right away this time. “Everything he did that made it clear he thought I was lying, that I was seeing someone else. That he didn’t trust me.”

My gut cramps. Will the shame of what I put her through ever diminish? I kind of doubt it.

“I just never understood what I’d done to deserve it, you know?” she goes on. “I mean, it was the pregnancy that triggered it, but there was a medical explanation for that, and his doctor confirmed it. That didn’t put a stop to his jealousy, though.”

“Mhmm,” Sharon responds, her pen scratching. “Those are definitely all things he’s discussed with me. So I’m guessing he told you that we managed to get to the bottom of it, why he reacted that way?”

“Yeah. Because of his mom.”

Something inside me releases, unwinds. She said that so simply and not at all like it’s something she’s doubtful or dismissive of. In fact, she sounded like she’s accepted it, and the relief that grips me feels overwhelming, like an injection of morphine for excruciating pain I’d stopped noticing. A tight knot swells in my throat, but I manage to swallow it down.

“Okay. So.” My therapist frowns mildly, riffling through her notes before she continues, her attention back on Paige. “One area of concern I’ve had was the extremes Logan’s jealousy pushed him to, the actions he took and kept from you for a long time.”

Oh, fuck.

Oh, shit.

No, no, no.

I widen my eyes at the older woman, shaking my head slightly, willing her to look at me, to notice that I’m silently urging her to abort, abort, abort.

But she’s too focused on Paige. “Last month he said he’d finally confessed them to you. Do you have any thoughts on that?”

“What?” Paige says, turning to me with a mild frown. “What is she talking about?”

“Uh,” is all that comes out of my mouth. My leg falls off my knee, onto the floor. I feel flustered, like my brain is malfunctioning. Hot flames of mortification spark in my chest, shooting up into my face. I’m a fucking idiot. How the hell did I forget the fib I told Sharon about having come clean? Now I’m so fucking screwed.

“I’m sorry,” Sharon cuts in. “I must’ve misunderstood. My mistake.” Her voice is flat and agitated, not at all like her normally Zen self, and she’s clearly already caught on to what I did and is trying to fix it for me.

Too bad there’s no way Paige is going to buy it. Fucking shit.

“No, wait,” the love of my life says, sitting up straighter and sliding her hand from mine. “Wait. What extremes?” Her eyes zigzag between me and Sharon, eventually settling on me. “Logan?”

Yeah. I’m a dead man walking right now. Or sitting. Whatever. Inhaling deeply, I force myself to admit, “There’s some stuff I haven’t told you. Sharon thought I had because I lied to her so she’d stop asking me about it.”

“What stuff?” Paige inches away, eyeing me apprehensively.

God fucking dammit. I brush my hand across my mouth, rubbing. This is going to get ugly. Feeling like it might be my last chance to point this out to her, I say, “The thing is, it’s in the past. I mean, if you can forgive me for everything else—which I’m assuming you must think you can—that is, if you haven’t already—then you can forgive this, too—because otherwise you wouldn’t be here with me. Right?”

“Can you please just tell me what you did?” she demands.

Right. Closing my eyes, I draw in a fortifying breath. “Do you remember when Elliott was about a month old, and I took a day off work to give you a break and told you to go to the spa and relax?”

Her eyebrows knit. “Yeah?”

“I took him to a clinic for a paternity test.”

Her eyes turn wide, unblinking. “What?” she splutters. “You…what?”

“I just…felt like I had to be sure.” I hate my defensive tone, the wheedling and pleading I feel compelled to express. Hate that I have reason to offer excuses in the first place. “It wasn’t a big deal. They only swabbed the inside of his cheek.”

“Not a big deal,” she echoes, looking stunned. “You lied to me, hauled my too-young-to-be-vaccinated baby to what was probably a germ-infested clinic, and had them shove a swab into his mouth…for what? To feed your paranoia?”

I shake my head, my heart in my throat, pounding painfully. “I’m not proud of it, baby. It was a fucked-up thing to do. I’m sorry.”

I’m not surprised she doesn’t ask what the test results were. Of course she doesn’t. Unless she was abducted in her sleep and impregnated by aliens, there’s a zero percent chance Elliott’s not mine, and she knows that better than anyone.

I know it, too, though. Now.

I reach for her hand, but she snatches it out of the way, watching me with disgust. “So is that it? That’s all she meant about going to extremes?”

I’m so tempted to say yes. Unfortunately, Sharon used the plural, and Paige is too sharp not to have noticed.

“No,” I say, and I wonder if the calm that suddenly flows through me is one that a prisoner condemned to death experiences as his moment is approaching. It’s the peace of acceptance, of inevitability.

“The results of the test weren’t enough for me. So a few months later…” I clench my teeth, hard. “I had an investigator follow you.”

Her head jerks. Her jaw drops. Disbelief freezes her entire face. “Are you kidding me?” It comes out quietly, with no force behind it. Then it’s like she gets a surge of fortitude, and her volume skyrockets as she repeats, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’m so sorry.” It’s all I can think to say. Sorry, sorry, so goddamned sorry.

A strangled sound comes from her throat. “Someone followed me?” she asks incredulously. “For how long?”

“A couple of weeks. Then he told me he was sure you weren’t cheating, and that was that.”

“Excuse me?” She laughs, her eyes glittering with disbelief. “So this guy was somewhere nearby wherever I went? With a camera? Ready to catch me in the act?”

“Yeah. That’s how surveillance is usually done.” I hear myself say it, realize it sounds kind of snarky, and so I offer her a taut, apologetic smile. Like that’ll disarm her.

I’m a moron. An asshole. Probably soon to be a divorced moron and asshole.

Across from us, Sharon is observing with hushed solemnity, a crease on her forehead. Motherly concern.

“Who was the investigator?” Paige asks, sounding suspicious.

My stomach roils. Forcing myself to meet her eyes, I say, “Does it matter?”

Her expression turns steely. “Who. Was. He?”

My face prickles. This is the final nail in my coffin, the death knell, and I can’t get a word out.

But I don’t need to.

She’s already figured it out.

“Oh, my God,” she breathes out, realization transforming her countenance into a horrified rictus. “You didn’t. You fucking didn’t…dare. How—” She exhales again, almost panting. “Tell me who it was. I need to hear you say it.”

Sitting up, I lean forward and rest my elbows on my thighs, rubbing my face with both hands. Wincing, I mumble between my fingers, “It was my dad.”

With my eyes squeezed shut, I hear her gasping like she’s choking, can feel the couch cushions bounce and then the ease of tension telling me she’s no longer sitting down.

“You crazy, lying, selfish, spoiled piece of shit!”

Every word feels like a kick in the nuts, producing agony and nausea and light-headedness. Never before have I heard that tone in her voice, that edge of near hysteria. Still covering my mouth, I look up at her, but she’s no more than a blurry outline, because my eyes start swimming with tears.

“Paige,” Sharon begs. “Try to take a breath.”

“No,” my wife spits out, and through my fuzzy vision, I see her whip around toward the other woman, pointing accusingly. “No, he lied to you, too. Don’t try to get me to calm down. I’m not calming down. Don’t sit there and act like this is normal, and I’m the one who’s being unreasonable!”

“I didn’t say that,” the therapist answers calmly.

“I mean, have you told him that it’s okay?” Paige rages on. “That he can be excused, because he had a cheating and absent mom? Because if you have, you suck at your job! This is not normal. It’s not okay.”

I blink, clearing the liquid from my eyes, and while I swipe irritatedly at the drops on my cheeks, I can finally see my wife standing there with her hands clenched in fists, her face flushed a dark, angry pink as she glares at Sharon and says, “And don’t give me that crap about it being in the past. There has to be a limit to the level of crazy that it’s possible to recover from. And he—” Now she points at me, her finger stabbing repeatedly in my direction. “He’s way over that limit.”

“Honestly,” Sharon retorts, “that’s not a judgment you’re qualified to make, Paige.”

“Whatever,” my wife snaps. “I’m definitely fucking qualified to say I don’t want him in my life anymore.” Turning on me, she snarls, “We’re done. You’ll be served with divorce papers.”

“Paige—” Sharon urges as my wife snatches her purse off the couch and makes a beeline for the door. Before I can draw breath, she’s gone.

Automatically, I get to my feet, staring at the door as I stand there at a loss for what to do. Should I go after her? Will that be helpful? Does that even matter? Don’t I at least need to try? What am I telling her if I don’t follow her, don’t think it’s worth even trying to talk to her?

“She’ll calm down,” my therapist says from her chair. “In the meantime, give her some space.”

The command gives me pause, has me peering at the little woman with my mouth slightly agape. Giving orders is so far removed from how she usually communicates with me, it’s somewhat jarring. And significant.

“Yeah,” I comment, feeling dazed. “And she’ll still be furious.”

Sharon gives me a look as if she’s saying I’ve made my bed.

Which I most definitely have. Fuck.

“Sorry I lied to you,” I offer with a twist of my lips.

She waves me off. “Hazard of the trade. Same as yours, I’m guessing.” Looking up at the clock on the wall, she says, “Well, we still have quite a bit of time left, so we can keep going if you like?”

I consider it, but only for a second. At some point I definitely want to talk to her about all the messed-up shit I’ve learned since my last appointment. Such as my mom being dead—which I still haven’t figured out how I feel about—and the fact that I have a sister and, worst of all, my dad possibly being a goddamned wife beater. Jesus Christ.

Now’s not the time, though, while I’m still reeling from the sudden implosion of my marriage that I had thought was on the mend. All the other issues pale in comparison. “No, that’s all right,” I say to Sharon, and even though I don’t really owe her an excuse or explanation, I still add, “I need to call my dad and tell him she knows.”

Which is true enough.

As I leave the office, lumbering numbly down the stairs, it hits me like a wrecking ball: I’ve lost her.

Put a lid on it.

Lights out.

Do not resuscitate.

RIP us.