Truth Shattered Everything

Notes from Wyld: (I know, I know)

I never planned to release this version of the story--honestly, I was perfectly happy letting it collect digital dust in the archives. But after enough people asked (and some borderline threatened), I figured, fine, let's unleash the chaos. This version is a little different from the one I originally published. The themes are all there--betrayal, resilience, revenge, and one man's slow descent into therapy-induced madness--but it doesn't quite have the same sharp bite. Think of it as the "director's cut" that nobody asked for but is getting anyway.

That said, there's something entertaining about sharing it. This version gives a deeper look into Travis's emotional spiral, the moments that didn't make the final cut, and, of course, more ridiculous antics from his kids. It might not be as polished, but it has its own messy charm--like a guilty pleasure reality show, except with more flamingos and questionable life choices. So, for better or worse, here it is--the version I once swore would never see daylight. If it ruins your perception of the original, well... don't say I didn't warn you.

On to the show:

-------------------------

So, here I am--Travis Parker, 43 years old, IT department manager, proud owner of a green 2016 Subaru Outback (because nothing screams "family man" like a practical station wagon), and lifelong resident of Charlotte, North Carolina. I specialize in government software security, which is exactly as exciting as it sounds. Let's just say, if there were ever an Oscar for "Most Mind-Numbing PowerPoint Presentation," I'd have a shelf full of them.

I've been married to Monica for over 20 years. We met in college, fell in love, and built a life together. Three kids later, my world revolves around Traci (21, the ambitious Wall Street-bound overachiever), Francis (18, laid-back, humorous, and destined to be my retirement home DJ), and Beth (16, the hopeless romantic who still believes I can fix anything). I like to think of myself as the rock of the family, though I suspect my kids see me as the guy who tells the same stories at dinner and has an alarmingly specific knowledge of '90s sci-fi movies.

Speaking of movies, I love them--along with video games, because at heart, I'm still that nerdy kid who spent way too much time in arcades. And while I might not advertise it, I have a talent I don't talk about much. Let's just say if life had a soundtrack, I'd be able to move to it. But I digress.

Life is... stable. Maybe a little too stable. My marriage with Monica is in that "we've been together forever and now mostly communicate through sighs and eyebrow raises" phase. But I've always believed that love isn't about grand gestures--it's about showing up, being loyal, and keeping your promises. And I do. Always.

Charlotte's summers are humid enough to make you question your life choices, but I don't mind. I keep busy with work, family, and the occasional attempt to convince my kids that "dad jokes" are, in fact, an art form. Life isn't perfect, but it's good. Or so I think.

Because what I don't realize is that everything I've built, everything I've trusted, is about to be put to the ultimate test.

But hey--at least I can still move with grace. Even if no one's watching.

__________________

Summer 2022

Travis:

Life was good--predictable, stable. Sure, my marriage had settled into a comfortable routine, and work was as thrilling as watching paint dry, but I had my family, my kids, and my quiet little world. And then, my phone rang.

I almost didn't answer. I was in the middle of a report, the kind where you copy-paste numbers into a spreadsheet and try not to lose the will to live. But something made me pick up, a feeling, maybe. The voice on the other end was calm but firm. "Mr. Parker? This is Officer Delgado with the Charlotte PD. Your wife, Monica Parker, has been in an accident. She's been taken to Atrium Health Main."

The world didn't stop. It just tilted, like someone had yanked the ground out from under me.

"What? What do you mean an accident? Is she--?" My voice cracked, betraying the panic I was trying to shove down.

"She's stable. But she's sustained injuries and will need to remain in the hospital for observation. You should come down here as soon as possible."

I was already on my feet, shoving my laptop shut, barely registering the concerned look from my coworker. "I'll be there."

The drive was a blur. My hands shook as I fumbled for my phone, calling the only person I knew could hold things together while I lost my grip--Traci.

She picked up after one ring. "Dad?"

"Traci--listen. Your mom--she was in an accident. I don't have details, but she's at Atrium. I'm on my way. I need you to tell Beth and Francis and get them ready to go."

I heard her inhale sharply. Silence for half a second, then the steel in her voice. "I'm on it."

In the background, I heard her bark orders, her no-nonsense tone cutting through the house. "Beth, Francis--get up, now! Mom's in the hospital! We're leaving in five minutes!"

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to focus on the road, on getting to Monica, not on the hundred terrible scenarios running through my head.

By the time I screeched into the hospital parking lot, my heart was pounding. I barely remembered locking the car before sprinting inside.

"I'm looking for Monica Parker," I gasped to the nurse at the front desk.

She glanced at the monitor. "She's in Room 214, second floor. She's stable, but she needs to rest."

I took the stairs two at a time. When I reached her room, I hesitated, gripping the door handle like it might burn me. Then, I pushed it open.

Monica was there. Alive. Hooked up to an IV, her auburn hair tangled, a bruise darkening on her cheekbone. Her arm was wrapped in a cast, and a bandage covered her forehead.

Her eyes flickered open. "Travis," she rasped, weak but alert.

Relief punched the air from my lungs. "Jesus, Monica." I moved to her side, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "What happened?"

She exhaled slowly. "Car ran a red light. Hit me on the passenger side. I tried to turn, but--" She winced, her hand flexing against the sheets.

A doctor walked in before I could respond, clipboard in hand. "Mr. Parker, your wife has sustained a mild concussion, a fractured wrist, and some bruised ribs. She's lucky--it could have been much worse. She'll need to stay for observation for a few days, a week at most."

A week. Not forever. Not permanent.

I nodded, trying to breathe, but it still felt like my chest was too tight. "Thank you. Just... thank you."

The door burst open, and Traci stormed in, Beth and Francis trailing behind her. Beth had tear-streaked cheeks, Francis looking pale beneath his usual easygoing demeanor.

"Oh my God, Mom," Beth whispered, rushing to her side.

Monica smiled weakly. "I'm okay, sweetheart. Just a little banged up."

Traci folded her arms, eyes narrowing as she examined Monica like she could personally fight the universe for doing this. "Did they catch the driver?"

"The police are investigating," the doctor said.

Traci didn't look satisfied. "They better."

I rubbed my face, exhaustion finally settling in now that I wasn't running on pure adrenaline. "Alright, let's take a breath. Mom's gonna be okay. That's what matters."

Beth sniffled, squeezing Monica's good hand. "We should stay with her."

Monica shook her head. "You guys should go home. I'll be fine."

Traci scoffed. "Yeah, not happening."

I sighed. "Alright, let's at least grab some food. We'll take shifts."

Monica gave me a look, one I knew all too well. The silent 'I love you' that had always been there, even when words failed us.

And despite everything, I found myself reaching for her hand, holding it tight. Because no matter how much our marriage had settled into routine, no matter how distant we'd become--when it came down to it, she was still my Monica.

And I wasn't going anywhere.

Three days had passed since the accident, and I hadn't left Monica's side except to grab a quick shower and change clothes. I had taken time off from work, knowing that nothing on my desk could possibly be as important as being here for my wife and kids.

The hospital room was small but clean, shared with another patient whose side was separated by a thin curtain. Monica was propped up on the bed, looking better but still pale, her arm in a cast, bruises fading into that ugly yellow-green stage. Despite the injuries, she was in good spirits--smiling, even joking when the kids were around.

A nurse came in, checking Monica's vitals before offering a warm smile. "The doctor will be in within the hour to go over a few things."

I nodded, rubbing the back of my neck. The last few days had been an emotional rollercoaster, and I was just hoping the news would be good.

Traci stretched and stood up from the chair where she'd been scrolling through her phone. "I'm starving. I'm gonna hit the cafeteria. Beth, Francis--let's go."

Beth looked reluctant to leave, but Francis was already on his feet. "Yeah, I could eat."

Monica glanced at me. "You should go, too."

I hesitated. "I'm fine. I'll wait until the doctor--"

"Travis," she interrupted, smiling softly. "Go. Get some coffee or something. I'm not going anywhere."

I exhaled through my nose, knowing I had no real argument. "Alright, alright."

As we stepped into the elevator, I leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, thinking about what questions I wanted to ask the doctor. The moment the doors started closing, my eyes flicked up--and I saw him.

Monica's doctor.

He was walking toward her room, clipboard in hand. My gut told me this was my only chance to catch him before rounds swept him away for the rest of the day.

"Hold the door," I said quickly, slapping the 'Open' button.

Traci frowned. "Dad?"

"I'll be right down," I promised as I slipped back into the hallway, heading toward Monica's room.

The door was slightly ajar, so I stepped inside quietly. The curtain was still drawn around her bed, the other patient apparently asleep or gone. I was about to call out when I heard Monica's voice--low, hesitant.

"Doctor... is there any way we could run a pregnancy test?"

I froze.

The room spun slightly, but I stayed rooted in place, every nerve in my body suddenly on high alert.

The doctor's response came measured and professional. "It's likely too soon for any standard tests, but we can schedule a blood test to check for early signs if you'd like."

I felt my throat close up.

I hadn't slept with Monica the day of the accident.

In fact, I hadn't slept with Monica in weeks.

And more importantly, I had a vasectomy after Beth was born.

The silence in my head was deafening. Every rational thought drowned under the sound of my heartbeat slamming in my ears.

The doctor continued speaking, going over her post-discharge care, but I barely registered the words. My eyes stayed locked on the curtain in front of me, the thin fabric separating me from the woman I had spent over two decades with--the woman I thought I knew.

The doctor finished, and I heard his footsteps move toward the curtain. He pulled it open, revealing me standing there, stiff as a statue.

Monica's smile faltered the moment she saw me.

I didn't move.

I didn't blink.

I just stared straight ahead.

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The color drained from her face, her fingers tightening around the blanket covering her lap.

She knew.

She knew I had heard everything.

And in that moment, the world I had built, the love I had trusted, the stability I had clung to--shattered.

I turned to Monica slowly, my body moving on autopilot, like a marionette controlled by something other than myself.

Inside, I was burning. A wildfire of rage, betrayal, and disbelief consuming everything in its path. But outwardly? Outwardly, I was calm. Deadly calm.

"Who?" My voice came out even, almost eerily so.

Monica's lips parted, but nothing came out. She stared at me, eyes wide, face pale.

I took a step closer. "Who, Monica?"

Her hands clenched into fists on her lap. She looked down, away, anywhere but at me.

I let out a humorless chuckle, shaking my head. "No, no. See, that's not gonna work. You don't get to sit there and play the wounded victim. You don't get to make me be the one to say it."

She swallowed hard. "Travis..."

I leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "Say. His. Name."

A beat.

Then another.

Then--barely audible--"Rick."

And just like that, something inside me cracked wide open.

I let out a sharp bark of laughter, stepping back and running a hand over my face. "Oh, of course! Rick! Good ol' Rick Sullivan, the neighborhood gym bro, the walking protein shake. Well, that just ties this whole humiliating little package up with a bow, doesn't it?"

Monica flinched, but I wasn't done. Not even close.

"You know, I always wondered why he was so damn friendly. Always waving when I drove by, always offering workout advice I never asked for. And here I thought he just wanted me to join his gym. Turns out, he just wanted my wife."

She closed her eyes like she could block out the words, but I wasn't about to let her escape this.

I scoffed, shaking my head. "Tell me, Monica, was it the muscles? The grunting? The way he deadlifts his own ego in front of the whole damn neighborhood? Or was it just the sheer thrill of screwing your husband over while he was too busy working to notice?"

Tears welled in her eyes. "Travis, please--"

"Oh no. No, no, no." I wagged a finger. "You don't get to 'Travis, please' me. I just found out my wife of over twenty years has been sleeping with a man who wears tank tops in November. So, you'll have to excuse me if I don't give a damn about your feelings right now."

She wiped at her face with her good hand. "I didn't mean--"

"To get caught?" I cut in, my smile sharp and cruel. "Yeah, I figured."

She inhaled sharply, finally meeting my eyes. "It wasn't--"

"Don't," I warned, my voice low. "Don't sit there and try to tell me it wasn't what it looks like. Because I may be a lot of things, Monica, but stupid isn't one of them."

Her breath hitched. "I was lonely."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Lonely? Lonely? That's rich. I work my ass off to provide for this family, I put you and the kids first in everything, and you were lonely? Forgive me for not installing a damn confetti cannon every time you walked into the room."

Tears spilled over, but I felt nothing. No sympathy. No regret. Just a hollow, aching fury.

"Do the kids know?" I asked, voice like steel.

She shook her head quickly. "No! God, no. Travis, please don't--"

"Oh, don't worry," I cut her off, stepping back. "I wouldn't want to tarnish their perfect image of their mother. You've done such a great job keeping this secret, after all."

The door opened slightly, and the nurse poked her head in. "Mr. Parker? Is everything alright?"

I exhaled through my nose, forcing my rage down, back into its cage. "Peachy," I said with a tight smile. "Just discussing post-care instructions."

The nurse gave me a hesitant nod before retreating.

I turned back to Monica, shaking my head. "You know what the worst part is?"

She sniffled, looking up at me with red-rimmed eyes.

"I thought we were just in a rough patch. I thought we'd figure it out, like we always did." I swallowed hard, voice turning hoarse. "But you weren't just slipping away, were you? You were already gone."

She opened her mouth, but I didn't wait to hear whatever weak excuse she had left.

I turned on my heel and walked out the door, leaving her sitting in the bed with nothing but the truth between us.

And for the first time in my life, I had no idea where to go from here.

As I stepped out of the hospital, the automatic doors whooshing shut behind me, sealing Monica inside while I stood alone in the thick summer heat. The air smelled like asphalt and exhaust, the usual city grime clinging to everything. But I barely noticed.

My hands clenched at my sides, my pulse hammering in my ears. The rage inside me hadn't burned out--it had only intensified. My breath came sharp, my vision narrowed, my body coiled so tight I thought I might explode right there on the goddamn sidewalk.

Rick.

Monica and Rick.

It played over and over in my head like a sick joke, a punchline I never saw coming. My wife of over two decades had been screwing the neighborhood meathead. And if she was asking for a pregnancy test, it hadn't been a one-time mistake. No, this was something else. This was an affair, deliberate, intentional.

I ran my hands through my hair, pacing along the curb, my shoes scuffing against the concrete. What the hell do I do now?

I had spent the last twenty years building a life with Monica, raising three incredible kids, being the husband who worked late, but always came home, the father who put his family first. And for what? For this?

For a woman who looked me in the eyes, kissed me goodnight, and still betrayed me behind my back?

The urge to punch something was overwhelming. I imagined Rick's stupid, smug face, the way he always carried himself like he was the king of the damn neighborhood. Had he been laughing at me this whole time? Had Monica?

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to keep myself from snapping. Because there were things I could do--storm into Rick's gym and break his nose, throw Monica's things out on the front lawn, scream at her until my voice was raw. But what would that fix? Nothing.

I needed to focus on what mattered.

My kids.

Beth. Francis. Traci.

They were my whole world. And they were about to have it shattered.

How the hell was I supposed to tell them?

Beth, who idolized her mother. Francis, who always made light of things but would be gutted underneath. Traci, who already carried the weight of the world on her shoulders--how would she even process this?

My life with Monica? It was over.

I couldn't see a way forward. Not after this. Not after Rick.

I had always been a man of commitment, of responsibility. I believed in family, in loyalty, in us. But that foundation was gone now, replaced with a bitter, gaping void.

Could I ever trust her again? No.

Could I stay married to her for the sake of the kids? Maybe. But would that be any kind of life? Could I really sleep next to her at night knowing what she'd done? Could I kiss her, hold her, pretend that we were still a team?

No.

That part of me had been obliterated the second I heard her say his name.

But what came next?

Divorce? The word felt foreign, ugly. But the reality was that I would never look at Monica the same way again. No amount of apologies or explanations could erase the truth of what she had done.

I thought about the house. Would I move out? Would she? Would we split time with the kids, shuffling them between two broken parents?

God, how the hell did it come to this?

A car horn blared from the parking lot, jolting me from my spiraling thoughts. I sucked in a breath, forcing my shoulders to drop, unclenching my fists.

I needed a plan.

But more than that, I needed to get the hell away from this hospital.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket, my thumb hovering over Traci's number. She was the strongest of the three, the one who could take bad news and process it, but still--how do you tell your daughter that her mother just blew up your entire family?

I swallowed hard and slid the phone back into my pocket.

Not yet.

For now, I just needed to drive. To think. To put some distance between myself and the wreckage of the life I once thought was unbreakable.

Because no matter what happened next, one thing was certain.

There was no going back.

__________________

Traci:

I walked down the hospital hallway, Beth and Francis at my side, all three of us carrying trays from the cafeteria. Mom needed to eat, and Dad probably did too, though knowing him, he was stubbornly ignoring his own needs.

But as we turned the corner and approached Mom's room, something felt... wrong.

The door was open, and inside, a nurse was speaking in a soft, controlled voice. "Mrs. Parker, you need to calm down. Please, take a deep breath."

Mom sat up in bed, her face streaked with tears, her uninjured hand clutching the blanket like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. She was sobbing, chest heaving, eyes red and puffy.

Beth gasped and immediately ran to her. "Mom! What's wrong?"

Francis set his tray down and moved closer, his easygoing demeanor gone. "Mom?" He put a hand on her shoulder. "What happened?"

Mom just shook her head, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks.

I felt my stomach drop. "Where's Dad?"

At that, Mom wailed louder, her whole body trembling.

The nurse gave her a concerned look. "Mrs. Parker, please, try to breathe."

I clenched my jaw. Something was off. Something big.

I turned to the nurse, my voice sharp. "What the hell is going on?"

The nurse hesitated, glancing between me and Mom. Finally, she sighed. "Your father and mother had a... disagreement. He left about five minutes ago."

A disagreement? That didn't sound like Dad. He never walked away from Mom when she was upset. He was always the one who stayed, who fixed things.

Beth sniffled. "Is he coming back?"

Mom let out a choked sob.

My fingers curled into fists. Mom did something.

I didn't know what, but I knew my dad. He wouldn't just leave over some argument. And Mom? Mom looked guilty. Like the weight of whatever happened was crushing her.

Francis looked at me, confused. "Traci?"

I took a breath, trying to keep my voice steady. "Stay with Mom. I'll find Dad."

Beth turned to me, alarmed. "Wait--"

"I'll call you," I said, already heading for the door.

I sprinted down the hallway, weaving past nurses and patients, my heart slamming against my ribs. When I pushed through the hospital entrance and stepped outside, I saw his car.

Dad's green Subaru Outback was pulling onto the main road.

I didn't think. I just ran.

I raced across the parking lot, fumbling with my keys, unlocking my own 2006 Subaru Outback. I yanked open the driver's side door and jumped inside, my hands shaking as I jammed the key into the ignition.

"Come on, come on, come on," I muttered, slamming the gear into drive.

Dad's car was already down the street, but I could still see him. I pressed my foot down hard on the gas, my tires screeching as I shot forward, merging into traffic.

I gripped the wheel, weaving between cars, keeping my eyes locked on his taillights.

What the hell happened in that room?

Why had Dad left like that?

And why did I have this horrible, sinking feeling that nothing would ever be the same again?

__________________

Travis:

I pulled into the driveway, my grip so tight on the steering wheel my knuckles were bone white. The house stood in front of me, the same as always, but it didn't feel like home anymore. It felt like a lie.

Without thinking, I shoved the car into park and got out, moving on autopilot. My feet carried me inside, through the quiet halls, up the stairs, and into the bedroom I had shared with Monica for over twenty years.

I didn't stop.

I grabbed my duffel bag from the closet and started packing. Clothes, toiletries, random essentials--whatever I could throw in. My movements were quick, jerky, fueled by something primal and uncontrollable.

Rage.

I was filled with it. It coursed through my veins, my entire body vibrating with the need to do something--to break, to smash, to destroy.

I didn't hear Traci at first.

"Dad!"

The voice barely registered, muffled by the storm inside my head.

"Dad! DAD!"

I spun around, breathing hard. Traci stood in the doorway, eyes wide, chest heaving like she'd run up the stairs. Her gaze dropped to the duffel bag, then snapped back to my face.

"What's going on?" she demanded.

I didn't answer.

Because how the hell do you tell your daughter that her mother just detonated their entire family?

Traci's expression shifted when she got a good look at me. I saw it happen--her realization that this wasn't just stress, or exhaustion, or some normal parental meltdown. She saw the rage in my eyes. The hurt.

Her brows furrowed. "Dad... what happened?"

I let out a short, humorless laugh. "Well, Traci, turns out your mother's been screwing the local gym rat, so I'm having a bit of a day."

The words were wrong. I knew it the second they left my mouth.

Traci's whole body stiffened, and I snapped out of it.

Shit.

She was the last person I should've told.

Her face morphed from confusion to pure, unfiltered rage. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

I should've scolded her for cursing. I would have--any other time.

But not now.

Now? I just let it go.

Because she was right to be angry.

Her fists clenched at her sides, her jaw tightening. "Mom. Mom?" She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "That lying, cheating--Bitch!"

Again, I said nothing.

Because I agreed.

Traci took a deep breath, then fixed her glare back on me. "And you? What are you doing? Packing? What the hell, Dad? You're just gonna run away?"

I zipped up the bag. "Traci, I need to get out of here."

"Why?" she demanded.

I exhaled sharply, trying to find the right words. "Because I am one bad decision away from doing something stupid."

Traci scoffed. "You don't do stupid."

I met her eyes, the weight of my fury pressing down on me. "I might."

I barely had time to react before Traci stormed over, grabbed the duffel bag I had just packed, and dumped everything back into my dresser. Clothes flew everywhere, socks and shirts landing in a heap on the floor.

"What the hell are you doing?" I asked, stunned.

She turned to me, her eyes blazing. "You're not leaving. Not you."

I stared at her, caught between anger and exhaustion. "Traci--"

"No." She cut me off, jabbing a finger at my chest. "You stay. She leaves."

Before I could argue, she turned on her heel and stomped out of the bedroom, cursing Monica's name under her breath. I could hear her rummaging through something downstairs, the clatter of cabinets opening and closing.

I sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, rubbing my face. This wasn't how I expected my day to go.

A minute later, Traci marched back in, arms full of garbage bags.

I raised an eyebrow. "What, are we cleaning the house now?"

She tossed a bag at me. "Start packing Mom's stuff."

I blinked. "You want me to--what?"

She pointed at Monica's side of the room. "Her clothes, her shoes, her stupid little nightstand drawer--all of it."

I looked at the garbage bag in my hands, then back at her. "What's with the trash bags?"

Traci folded her arms. "Because they serve two purposes: Mom can take her stuff, or we can throw it out--just like her marriage vows."

Silence.

Then, I laughed. A deep, bitter, honest laugh. The kind I hadn't let out in days.

"Goddamn, kid," I muttered, shaking my head. "You get that mouth from me."

She smirked. "You're damn right I did."

And just like that, we got to work.

There was nothing neat or careful about it. We ripped Monica's clothes off their hangers, tossed her shoes into a pile, emptied drawers without a second thought. Jewelry, makeup, perfumes--all of it went into those garbage bags with the same amount of respect she had shown our family.

There was no talking. Just the occasional scoff from Traci when she found something particularly ridiculous. A framed photo of her and Dad from years ago? Garbage.

After a couple of hours, the bedroom looked like a battlefield. Bags piled high, empty shelves where Monica's things used to be, and clothes scattered across the floor like casualties of war.

Traci and I sat down on the bed, staring at the chaos we had created.

I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. "Jesus."

Traci leaned back on her elbows, looking around with a satisfied nod. "Better."

I glanced at her, then pulled her into a hug. She stiffened at first--never one for long sentimental moments--but she didn't pull away.

"It's okay to cry," I murmured, holding her tight.

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head against my shoulder. "Crying is for after."

I pulled back, studying her face. She was so much like me. Holding it all in, burying it under anger and action.

She met my eyes, her own filled with something cold and dangerous. "Right now, I want to punch something."

I let out another humorless laugh. "You and me both, kid."

Traci let out a slow breath, her rage still simmering beneath the surface, and pulled out her phone. Her fingers moved fast, scrolling through her contacts. After a few moments, she turned the screen toward me.

"Call them."

I stared at the screen. Grandma & Grandpa Dorsey. Monica's parents.

Traci's jaw was tight. "Mom needs somewhere to stay. She's not staying here. That's our call. Not hers."

I swallowed, taking the phone. She was right. If I let Monica walk back into this house, even for a night, I'd never get her out. And I needed her out.

I hit the call button.

It rang twice before Scott picked up.

"Travis! Good to hear from you." His voice was warm, like nothing had changed. Because, in his mind, nothing had. Yet.

I forced my voice to be even. "Scott. I wanted to let you know that Monica's being released this afternoon."

Scott sounded relieved. "That's great news! Wendy will be thrilled. How's she holding up?"

I clenched my jaw. "She'll need a place to stay for a while."

Silence.

"... What?" Scott finally asked.

"She can't stay here," I said flatly.

Another pause. Then, cautiously, "Why?"

I exhaled through my nose. The anger was still there, sitting just beneath the surface. "Let's just say Monica and I are having... marital problems."

Scott's tone sharpened. "What kind of problems?"

"The kind that require her not to be at home," I said, my voice devoid of any warmth.

Scott picked up on it immediately. There was another beat of silence, longer this time. Then, his voice dropped. "I see."

I nodded, even though he couldn't see me. "I've packed her things. You'll need your truck."

He caught the meaning in that, too. His sigh was heavy. "Alright. I'll be by in a few hours."

"See you then," I muttered, then hung up.

I handed the phone back to Traci. She took it without a word but nodded in approval.

No more arguing. No more discussion. It was done.

We spent the next hour moving the garbage bags out to the driveway. Each one stuffed full of Monica's belongings, the last remnants of the life she had destroyed. Traci was eerily quiet as we worked, her movements sharp, filled with barely restrained aggression.

I didn't blame her.

I carried another bag out to the porch and was about to turn back inside when I saw it.

Rick's truck.

Parked down the street like it had every damn day for years. It was just sitting there, an ordinary vehicle on an ordinary day. But to me, it was the embodiment of every betrayal, every lie, every moment I had been made a fool.

Traci saw it, too.

I heard her sharp intake of breath before she strode past me. She bent down, grabbed a rock from the flower bed, and cocked her arm back.

"Traci!" I barked, reaching for her.

She froze, rock still in hand, her knuckles turning white. "Why not?" she hissed through clenched teeth. "Why the hell not?"

I placed a firm hand on her wrist. "Because I don't want you in prison."

Her nostrils flared. "It's not fair."

I met her eyes. "Sometimes life isn't fair."

Her whole body trembled, but she didn't throw the rock. Instead, she turned, hurling it against the pavement with a frustrated scream. It shattered into pieces.

She stood there, chest rising and falling, fists clenched at her sides.

I stepped beside her, crossing my arms. "You feel better?"

She let out a bitter laugh. "Not even close."

I sighed. "Yeah. Me neither."

__________________

Traci:

Dad exhaled, rubbing his hands down his face before turning to me. "Go get Beth and Francis from the hospital."

I nodded, already stepping toward my car, but he held up a hand to stop me.

"Do not confront your mother," he warned, his voice firm. "I don't want you getting in trouble."

My jaw clenched. "She deserves worse than trouble."

"Traci," he said sharply, his eyes locking onto mine. "Promise me."

I gritted my teeth, fists clenching, but I knew he was right. If I saw Mom, I wouldn't be able to hold back, and that wouldn't help Dad. Wouldn't help Beth or Francis either.

So, I exhaled, forcing my rage down, and gave him a tight nod. "Fine."

"Just call them, have them meet you out front, and bring them back here before Scott and Wendy arrive."

Without another word, I turned, ran to my car, and sped off.

I gripped the steering wheel tight, my heart hammering. My blood felt like fire, and every idiot on the road was pushing me closer to losing it.

Not today.

I wasn't about to get pulled over before I could get my siblings out of there.

As I neared the hospital, I grabbed my phone and dialed Francis.

He picked up after two rings. "Hey, what's--"

"Have you and Beth meet me out front in twenty," I cut in, my voice sharp.

He hesitated. "Uh... Mom's still crying."

I rolled my eyes. "I don't care. Twenty minutes. Just be there."

He sighed. "Fine."

I hung up, throwing the phone onto the passenger seat and gunned it.

By the time I pulled up to the hospital entrance, Beth and Francis were already outside. Beth looked worried, her arms wrapped around herself, while Francis had his usual laid-back expression--except for the tension in his jaw.

They jumped in the second I pulled up, and I barely gave them time to shut the doors before I peeled away from the curb.

Francis looked over at me. "Did you find Dad?"

"Yes."

Beth leaned forward from the back seat. "What's going on?"

I gritted my teeth. "Dad will explain when we get home."

I wasn't going to be the one to tell them. Not yet.

The car was silent the rest of the way, except for the angry hum of the tires as I sped back home.

When I pulled into the driveway, my stomach dropped.

Dad was standing in the front yard, talking to Scott and Wendy.

Wendy was crying. Scott looked angry.

Francis muttered, "Oh, shit."

Beth was already unbuckling, practically jumping out of the car. "Grandma! Grandpa!"

Wendy turned the moment she saw us, opening her arms. "Oh, my darlings!"

Beth ran into her arms, Francis following behind at a slower pace. I shut the car door and walked over as Wendy pulled me into a tight hug.

"My poor babies," she whispered, her voice thick with tears.

I stiffened. She knew.

I pulled away and turned to Scott and Dad.

Scott shook his head, his jaw clenched, his face twisted in disappointment and fury.

Dad looked... exhausted.

Beth turned, looking between them. "What's going on?"

__________________

Travis:

I stepped into the house, motioning for everyone to follow.

"Let's sit down," I said, my voice tight.

Wendy sniffled as Scott helped her onto the couch. She was still shaken, clutching a tissue in one hand while Scott rubbed slow circles on her back, whispering something to calm her down.

Traci stayed next to me, arms crossed, her entire body still tense with anger.

Francis flopped onto the armchair across from me, throwing his legs over the side dramatically. "Alright," he said, stretching his arms behind his head, "so who died?"

I shot him a look, but he wasn't fazed. "Seriously, man. This is tense as hell. I feel like we're about to get some mafia-level bad news."

I almost smiled. Almost.

Traci didn't hold back. She smacked him in the shoulder. "Shut up, Francis."

He rubbed his arm, pouting slightly. "Jeez. That bad?"

I exhaled, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. "Yeah. That bad."

Beth sat next to Wendy, shifting nervously. "Dad," she whispered, looking around at everyone, "what did Mom do that required Grandma and Grandpa to be here?"

I took a deep breath. There was no way to soften this.

"She cheated," I said, my voice like lead. "With Rick."

Silence.

Francis blinked. "Wait... what?"

Beth just stared at me, her mouth slightly open, disbelief written all over her face.

I nodded, jaw tightening. "You heard me."

Beth shook her head. "No--no, that doesn't make sense. Mom wouldn't--"

Traci cut in, stepping forward. "Beth, he's not joking. This isn't something you joke about."

Francis sat up, rubbing his hands over his face. "Holy shit."

Beth's lip trembled. "She--she wouldn't do that..."

"She did," I said quietly.

Beth swallowed hard, her eyes filling with tears before she suddenly stood, fists clenched. "That bitch!" she shouted, startling Wendy, who gasped softly.

"And Rick?" Beth's face twisted with rage. "That piece of shit--"

"Hey, hey," Scott said, raising a hand, trying to calm her down. "I know you're angry--"

Beth let out a bitter laugh. "Angry? No, Grandpa, I'm beyond angry! Our whole family just exploded, and for what? Rick?"

Francis sighed, shaking his head. "Damn. Mom really did that."

Beth turned to me, wiping her eyes quickly. "Dad... what are you going to do?"

I inhaled deeply. "Divorce is most likely."

Scott nodded, his face serious. "I understand," he said slowly. "I love Monica--she's my daughter--but if Wendy did that to me?" He shook his head. "I don't think I could stay either."

Wendy nodded, squeezing Scott's hand. "I... I can't defend what she did, Travis," she said, her voice hoarse. "But please, no matter what happens, don't cut us out. Don't take our grandkids away from us."

I met her eyes. "That will never happen."

She exhaled in relief, standing up and wrapping her arms around me. "I'm sorry, sweetheart."

I hugged her back, patting her shoulder. "Me too."

Beth and Francis stood and hugged their grandparents next, followed by Traci, who--despite everything--still loved them.

Scott nodded at me. "We'll go pick up Monica and take her back to our place."

"Thanks," I murmured.

They left quietly, the door clicking shut behind them.

The moment they were gone, I felt my knees buckle, and I collapsed onto the couch, my head dropping back.

Traci immediately flopped down next to me on my left, arms crossed but leaning against me.

Francis took the other side, sighing heavily. "What a damn mess."

Beth sat directly on my lap, wrapping her arms around me and burying her face into my chest.

I sighed, rubbing her back, my own body still tense.

Then, Francis and Traci leaned in, wrapping their arms around both of us.

We sat there, in a tangled mess of grief, anger, and broken hearts.

A family--still standing.

__________________

Traci:

I broke away from the hug first, stepping back, needing space to breathe. The warmth of my family around me was grounding, but it did nothing to cool the fire burning in my chest.

I walked over to the front window, arms crossed tight, and glared at the house across the street. Rick's house.

The lights were off. His truck was still parked in the driveway, the same damn truck I had nearly shattered a window on earlier. It sat there like nothing had changed, like it didn't belong to a home-wrecking piece of garbage.

My hands curled into fists at my sides.

How dare he?

How dare he walk around our neighborhood, act like a decent guy, make jokes with my dad, wave at me and Francis like he wasn't screwing our mother behind Dad's back?

How dare Mom?

How dare she destroy everything for someone like him?

I clenched my jaw so tight my teeth ached. I wanted to destroy him.

The weight of my father's eyes on me was the only thing that pulled me from my thoughts.

"What are you thinking, Traci?" Dad's voice was calm, but I could hear the caution laced beneath it.

I turned away from the window, rage boiling over.

"What am I thinking?" I let out a harsh laugh. "I'm thinking about how that pathetic excuse for a man gets to sit in his house like nothing happened. Like he didn't just ruin our family."

Francis leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Technically, Mom did that," he muttered, though his tone lacked its usual humor.

I spun toward him. "Oh, don't worry, I have plenty of rage for her too."

Beth looked at me cautiously, her voice quiet. "Traci..."

I shook my head, breathing hard. "No. I'm not going to pretend this is okay. I'm not going to sit here and act like we're just going to move on while he gets to keep living his life, hitting the gym, pretending he's some hotshot." I scoffed. "What does he even have, huh? A divorce record and a shitty truck?"

Dad exhaled through his nose, standing up. "I get it."

I turned to him, hands on my hips, fuming. "Do you?"

His eyes darkened just a little. "Yes, Traci. I do."

I inhaled sharply, trying to control myself. Dad had been nothing but calm--through all of this. And for the first time, I hated it.

I wanted him to lose it. To shout. To throw something.

Instead, he just stood there, looking at me like he already knew exactly what was running through my head.

"You're thinking about revenge," he said. Not a question. A statement.

I swallowed. "Damn right, I am."

Dad sighed, running a hand over his face. "I get it. But that's not the move."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Oh, so we just let him win? Let him keep his stupid little life while we sit here picking up the pieces?"

Dad's face hardened. "He hasn't won anything."

I scoffed. "Really? Because it sure as hell doesn't feel like it."

He stepped forward, his voice low but firm. "Traci, if you do something stupid--if you go over there, break something, scream at him, anything--he wins."

I swallowed hard, breathing fast, my fists still clenched.

Dad shook his head. "You're angry. You should be. But you don't let that anger control you."

I closed my eyes, forcing air through my nose, trying to steady myself.

Beth sniffled. "I just want it to be over."

Francis sighed. "Yeah."

I swallowed, still breathing hard. "It's not fair."

Dad nodded. "No. It's not."

I turned back toward the window, staring at Rick's house, my jaw tightening.

Dad stepped next to me, looking out too.

"But he's not worth losing yourself over," he said quietly.

I inhaled sharply, forcing down the rage.

For now.

__________________

Monica:

I sat in the hospital bed, staring at the white linoleum tiles, my body heavy, my mind sluggish. The doctor had given me a mild sedative after I'd fallen apart earlier. Now, I just felt empty.

The nurse walked in, clipboard in hand, giving me a small, professional smile. "Your discharge papers are ready. Is your husband coming to get you?"

I swallowed, my throat dry. Is he?

I shrugged. "I... I don't know."

The nurse's smile faltered. She set the clipboard down and walked over, her hands gentle as she helped me sit up. "Let's get you dressed, sweetheart."

She handed me my clothes, and I moved mechanically, barely registering the motions. Everything felt surreal, distant, like I was watching myself from outside my body.

Once I was dressed, the nurse helped me into a wheelchair, her touch firm but kind. "There we go," she said softly. "Now, just sit tight. Someone will be here soon."

Forty minutes later, they arrived.

Mom and Dad.

The moment I saw them walk into the room, my stomach twisted.

Dad's face was hard, unreadable. He barely looked at me, his jaw set like he was grinding his teeth together.

Mom, though--she rushed forward, wrapping her arms around me, her voice soft and full of concern. "Are you okay, sweetheart?"

I blinked, confused. What was going on?

I pulled back, searching her face. "Mom?" My voice cracked. "What... why are you here?"

I turned to my dad, waiting for him to say something--anything--but he just stood there, arms crossed, staring at the far wall.

Mom stroked my hair, like I was a child again. "We're taking you home."

That should've reassured me, but it didn't. Because she didn't say which home.

Dad moved forward, gripping the wheelchair handles and pushing me toward the door without a word. The movement jolted me out of my daze. "Dad?" I turned my head to try and look at him. "What's going on?"

Silence.

We reached the front entrance, and I let them help me into the truck. That's when I saw it.

Garbage bags.

Piled high in the bed of Scott's crew cab, strapped down with a net to keep them from flying away. So many bags.

A sick feeling twisted in my gut. No.

The truck pulled away from the hospital, and I pressed a hand to my temple, trying to clear the fog in my brain. I barely noticed where we were going until I saw the road sign.

I-85 North.

I frowned, gripping the door handle. "Why are we getting on I-85?"

Mom's voice was soft, like she was trying to break bad news gently. "We're taking you home. To Raleigh."

I spun in my seat, looking out the back window at the truck bed again.

"What's in the bags?"

Dad finally spoke. His first words to me since he arrived.

"Your life."

The words hit me like a fist to the chest.

Tears burned at my eyes. "Oh my God." My breath came out shaky, my stomach churning.

Dad kept his eyes on the road.

I pressed a hand over my mouth. I was going to be sick.

"Dad," I whispered, my voice breaking.

Dad tightened his grip on the wheel.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't--

"Pull over," I gasped, struggling to unbuckle my seatbelt.

"Scott," Wendy said urgently.

With a low curse, Scott veered onto the shoulder, tires crunching over gravel.

The second the truck stopped, I threw the door open and stumbled out. I barely made it two steps before I dropped to my knees on the grass and vomited.

Wendy was beside me in an instant, rubbing my back as I gasped for air, tears streaming down my face.

I felt sick. Not just from throwing up--from everything.

Mom helped me back into the truck, her hand steady on my arm as if I might collapse again. My stomach still churned, my body weak, but it wasn't from the hospital stay.

It was from this.

From the bags piled in the back of the truck.

From the way Dad refused to look at me.

From the cold, silent finality of what had just happened.

No more marriage. No more home. No more family.

As we pulled back onto the highway, I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to stop the shivering. Not from the cold--from the reality crashing down on me.

No one spoke the rest of the way. Mom kept sneaking glances at me, her mouth opening like she wanted to say something, but she never did.

Dad didn't even bother with that much. He just gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, jaw clenched so tightly I could hear his teeth grinding every now and then.

When we finally pulled into my parents' driveway, my stomach clenched. I stared at their house--the house I grew up in. The house that hadn't been mine in decades.

Now, it was all I had left.

Mom opened my door and helped me out, leading me inside. The familiarity of it should have been comforting, but it wasn't.

It was suffocating.

She guided me to the living room and eased me down onto the couch, her hands light but firm, as if I might break.

Maybe I already had.

"Sit here, sweetheart," she murmured. "I'll help your father with your things."

I blinked at her. My things.

I didn't respond, just nodded numbly.

Mom hesitated, like she wanted to say something else, but instead, she turned and walked back outside.

Then I was alone.

I sat there, staring at nothing, listening to the sounds of the truck doors opening and closing.

Each time, I heard him.

Dad.

Muttering under his breath.

"... so damn stupid..."

Another door slam.

"... threw it all away..."

Footsteps back up the porch.

"... for what? For some idiot with a gym membership?"

I closed my eyes, pressing my fingers to my temple.

I didn't mean for this to happen.

I never wanted this.

But it didn't matter, did it?

Because this was my life now.

And I had no one to blame but myself.

__________________

Traci:

Later that night, I stood by the window, arms crossed, eyes locked on the dimly lit house across the street. Rick's house.

The anger hadn't faded. If anything, it had settled in deeper, simmering beneath my skin like a second pulse.

I wasn't going to let this slide.

Not for Rick. Not for Mom.

I heard footsteps behind me, but I didn't turn around.

Francis stopped beside me, following my gaze. "You're still thinking about it."

I exhaled sharply, the glass fogging slightly from my breath. "Dad's got enough to deal with. He's gotta deal with Mom, the divorce, figuring out how to move forward." I turned to face Francis. "That means it's up to us to handle Rick."

Francis arched a brow. "What does 'handle' mean exactly?"

I smirked. "It has to hurt. But we can't ruin our lives doing it."

Francis rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a low chuckle. "God, I knew this was coming."

I tilted my head. "And?"

He sighed. "I'm in."

I grinned, but before I could say anything, he held up a finger. "But--" His tone darkened slightly. "We don't go after Mom."

I scowled.

Francis crossed his arms. "Look, I get it. She caught a case of the stupids--a bad one. But she's still our mom. And no matter how much she screwed up, we don't go after her."

I ground my teeth, hating how reasonable he was being.

"She deserves--"

"She deserves to deal with the fallout of her own damn choices," Francis interrupted. "And she will. Dad's not forgiving this, Traci. She's already lost everything. But if we go after her? That's crossing a line."

I looked back at the window, my hands curling into fists.

He wasn't wrong.

But it still didn't feel like enough.

I let out a slow breath. "Fine. Mom's off-limits."

Francis nodded. "Good."

I turned to him, eyes narrowing. "That just means Rick has to pay twice as much."

Francis smirked. "That, I can get behind."

I tapped my fingers against the windowsill. "It has to be before I leave for New York."

Francis nodded. "And before I start at UNC in the fall."

We exchanged a look.

Silent agreement.

Rick was going to regret every single choice he made.

The next morning, Francis and I sat at the kitchen table, sipping on terrible coffee Dad had attempted to make. Beth sat across from us, pushing cereal around in her bowl, while Dad leaned against the counter, staring blankly at the fridge like it might magically offer up a decent meal.

Finally, Francis stretched and stood. "Alright, Dad, we're heading out to grab some food. Since, you know, Mom's the only one who can cook."

Dad snorted. "That's fair. I'd rather not kill anyone with my cooking."

Beth frowned. "Wait, you're leaving him here alone?"

Dad raised an eyebrow. "I'm a grown man, Beth."

She looked unconvinced. "Yeah, but you just found out Mom's a cheating liar, your entire world fell apart, and you look like you've barely slept."

Francis sighed dramatically, throwing an arm around her shoulders. "Beth, listen. You need to get out of the house. You've been hovering over Dad like a worried mother hen."

Beth huffed. "That's because someone has to."

I smirked. "Come on. You're not the only one who cares. We'll be back in like an hour."

Dad waved a hand dismissively. "Go. Just don't come back with any of that overpriced health food crap. I want something greasy enough to stop my heart."

Francis saluted. "On it."

As we got into the car, Beth narrowed her eyes at me in the rearview mirror. "Okay... this is not just a food run."

Francis grinned. "Damn, she caught on quick."

Beth crossed her arms. "What are you two up to?"

I glanced at Francis, and he nodded. No point hiding it.

"We're getting payback on Rick."

Beth's eyes lit up. "Oh, hell yes."

Francis chuckled. "That was easy."

She leaned forward between the seats. "Okay, what's the plan?"

I pulled into an empty parking lot where we wouldn't be disturbed and killed the engine. "That's what we're here to figure out."

Francis stretched. "Alright. Ground rules. It has to be epic. It has to humiliate him. But--" He pointed at me. "We can't do anything that'll get us arrested."

Beth hummed. "Okay. No physical damage to him or his property. But that still leaves a lot of room."

I smirked. "Exactly."

Francis leaned back. "So, ideas?"

Beth snapped her fingers. "We could fill his car with something. Something disgusting."

Francis grinned. "Like a thousand crickets?"

Beth's face lit up. "Yes! Or, like, expired seafood."

I laughed. "Okay, I love where your heads are at, but we need to make sure it doesn't backfire. If we mess with his car, he can just clean it out. I want something lasting."

Beth tapped her chin. "Hmm... we could sign him up for a ton of weird subscriptions?"

Francis snapped his fingers. "Oh, we could go nuclear. Like, get his email on every spam list known to man. Sign him up for 'Lovers of Exotic Toe Fungus Weekly' or 'Bald Men Anonymous Support Group.'"

I grinned. "That's solid."

Beth giggled. "Or send a fake wedding registry to the whole neighborhood. 'Rick and Monica: Celebrating Forbidden Love.'"

Francis howled. "Oh my God. Can we put like, 'donate to their honeymoon fund' and make it something ridiculous?"

I wiped a tear from my eye. "I am so proud of us right now."

Beth nodded. "But we need more. We need to make this so unbearable he considers moving."

Francis smirked. "Don't worry. I've got connections."

Beth and I exchanged glances. "Should we be worried?" I asked.

Francis grinned. "Let's just say I know some people who can make sure Rick's life becomes an absolute nightmare."

I laughed, shaking my head. "Alright. Let's finalize this over burgers. We've got work to do."

And just like that, Rick Sullivan's days of peace were numbered.

I leaned back in the driver's seat, crossing my arms. "Alright, let's get serious. We're not here for some half-assed prank. We're here to make sure Rick Sullivan regrets every single decision that led him to this point."

Francis smirked, stretching his arms behind his head. "So, what's our approach? One big explosion or slow, methodical torment?"

Beth grinned. "Oh, slow torment. No contest."

I nodded. "Exactly. If we do one big thing, he'll recover. But if we make his entire existence miserable for weeks? That's the sweet spot."

Francis tapped his chin. "Alright, let's start simple. Mail spam. Sign him up for every catalog, every magazine, every weird political newsletter on the planet."

Beth lit up. "Oh my God, we should sign him up for super specific, weirdly targeted stuff. Like those 'Colonial Wig Enthusiast' magazines or 'DIY Taxidermy Weekly.'"

Francis laughed. "What about something... embarrassing? Like, 'Diaper Fetish Monthly'?"

I grinned. "Oh, absolutely. And we'll send some to his work address too."

Beth gasped. "What if we make him go viral? Like, we put out an ad on Craigslist saying he's selling some super rare collector's item for cheap. Something that would have thousands of people blowing up his phone."

Francis howled. "Like 'Selling mint condition first edition Charizard for $50, no negotiations, serious inquiries only'?"

I slapped the dashboard. "YES. Or a free golden retriever puppy. People will show up at his damn house."

Beth bounced in her seat. "Okay, okay, but we also need physical annoyances. Stuff that'll mess with his daily life."

Francis smirked. "Birdseed."

Beth blinked. "Huh?"

I caught on immediately. "Genius."

Francis leaned forward. "We spread a shitload of birdseed all over his front lawn. By the next morning, his house is swarming with pigeons, crows, seagulls--every scavenger in the area."

Beth cackled. "And if we do it every couple of days, he'll have no idea why the birds won't leave."

I grinned. "Okay, okay, but let's escalate it. We get a few cheap plastic pink flamingos, put them in his yard, and then? Every night? We add more."

Francis snorted. "Until one day, he wakes up and his entire lawn is covered in like a hundred flamingos."

Beth wiped tears from her eyes. "Oh my God, he'll lose his mind!"

I nodded. "We have to make him feel haunted. Mess with his sanity."

Francis tapped the dashboard. "What if we buy, like, ten cheap burner phones, program them to call his number at random times, and just play creepy whispers?"

Beth wheezed. "That is so evil. I love it."

I wiped a fake tear. "You guys are truly my siblings."

Francis stretched. "Alright, so step one: spam mail and Craigslist chaos. Step two: the Birdpocalypse. Step three: Flamingo invasion. Step four: psychological warfare."

Beth clapped her hands. "Rick Sullivan is gonna have the worst month of his life."

I smirked, turning the key in the ignition. "Let's get to work."

__________________

Post Monica Day One

Travis:

The next morning, I sat at the kitchen table, staring at my coffee, thinking back to everything that had happened just two days ago. Two days since I found out my wife--my wife of over two decades--had blown up our entire family for a man whose biggest accomplishment was lifting heavy things repeatedly.

Two days since I realized that, for years, I had let Monica get her way in almost everything. Not because I was weak, but because she was my damn kryptonite. I had convinced myself that keeping the peace was the best way to keep our family together. Turns out, the only one following the marriage vows was me. So much for peace.

But despite all of that, I hadn't fallen apart. Not completely. And that was because of them--my kids.

Traci, Francis, and Beth had been my strength. Instead of me holding them together, they were holding me. Traci, with her sheer, unstoppable force of will. Francis, with his ability to make light of anything, even when the world was crumbling. And Beth, the heart of this family, the one who reminded me that even through all this bullshit, we were still us.

And somehow, they were handling this way too well. I took a sip of coffee, watching as they shuffled around the kitchen, whispering about whatever secret plan they were cooking up. Maybe I should be worried. I probably should be worried.

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. Maybe I should look into why they're so damn good at scheming. Then again... maybe I didn't want to know.

Post Monica Day Two

Monday morning arrived with an overwhelming sense of finality.

I had called out of work without a second thought. There was no way in hell I was going to sit in front of a computer all day, pretending to care about government software security when my entire life had just imploded.

Instead, I found myself sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, watching my kids whisper among themselves in the living room.

I raised an eyebrow. "You guys plotting something?"

They froze for half a second before Francis smirked. "What? Us? Nooo."

Traci rolled her eyes. "Ignore him."

Beth looked a little too innocent. "We're just... talking."

I sighed dramatically, setting down my mug. "Alright, I'll start setting some money aside for bail."

Francis grinned. "Appreciate it, Dad."

I shook my head, deciding I absolutely did not want to know what they were up to. Instead, I grabbed my laptop, settled in at the dining room table, and opened Google.

Divorce lawyers.

The search bar sat there, mocking me.

This was real now. It wasn't just an emotional mess; it was a legal battle waiting to happen.

I started reading about divorce laws in North Carolina, clicking through page after page, but most of it was dry legal jargon that made my head hurt.

Then, I focused on the next important thing. Finding a lawyer.

Not just any lawyer. I didn't need a shark--I needed an orca.

I wanted someone who could swallow Monica's legal team whole, then do a backflip for fun.

After some searching, I found him.

James Pearson.

The reviews were brutal--for his opponents. People described him as relentless, cunning, and terrifying in court. One review simply said, "If you want mercy, don't hire Pearson."

Perfect.

I grabbed my phone and dialed.

A receptionist answered, professional and efficient. "James Pearson's office. How can I help you?"

"Yes, I need to schedule an appointment for a divorce consultation."

She checked his schedule. "We have an opening tomorrow at nine a. m. Does that work?"

I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. "Yeah. That works."

After confirming the details, I hung up and exhaled, running a hand through my hair.

I opened my laptop again, pulled up a spreadsheet, and started listing everything I needed to do. Finances, custody, assets, next steps. A plan.

Because the one thing I could control right now was how I handled this.

I sighed, shaking my head as I stared at the screen. "Well... this is definitely not how I wanted to start my week."

__________________

Traci:

The second Dad disappeared into the dining room, the three of us huddled closer on the couch. It was time to get to work.

Francis cracked his knuckles. "Alright, Operation Rick's Misery is officially a go."

Beth had her laptop open, fingers already flying over the keyboard. "Step one: spam mail and Craigslist chaos."

I smirked, grabbing my phone. "Alright, let's make his mailbox wish it was never born."

Francis chuckled, pulling up some subscription sites. "Alright, we've got the usual--'Colonial Wig Enthusiasts Monthly,' 'Exotic Toenail Collector's Digest,' and oh--look! A 'Comprehensive Guide to Backyard Taxidermy.'"

Beth snorted. "Sign him up for all of it. Twice."

I leaned over to add a Craigslist ad. "Alright, how about: 'Selling mint condition first edition Charizard Pokémon card for $50--NO HOLDS, FIRST COME FIRST SERVE. Serious inquiries only.'"

Francis nearly fell off the couch laughing. "Oh, that's evil. His phone's gonna blow up."

Beth clicked a few more buttons, then suddenly, her eyes went wide. A slow, wicked grin stretched across her face.

I caught it immediately. "Okay. What the hell was that look?"

Beth's grin widened, but she shook her head. "Nothing."

Francis raised an eyebrow. "Bullshit. That was a diabolical look."

Beth just smirked, tapping away at her screen. "You'll see."

I narrowed my eyes, but whatever she had planned, I knew it was gonna be good.

__________________

Post Monica Day Three

Travis:

I spent my morning in James Pearson's office, going over every brutal detail of the impending divorce. And let me tell you--this guy did not disappoint. He was cold, calculating, and had the personality of a man who'd win custody of your dog, your car, and maybe even your soul if you weren't careful.

Exactly what I needed.

By 9:45 a. m., I had a legal plan. By 10:30 a. m., I was back on the road. And by 11:02 a. m., I was sitting at my desk, regretting every life choice that had led me to being here instead of drowning my problems in caffeine and something deep-fried.

It didn't take long for people to notice something was off.

By 11:15, I'd had three different co-workers pop by my cubicle with their best "Hey, you good?" faces.

"Yeah, just had a long weekend," I told Jeremy from Accounting.

"Everything alright at home?" asked Sarah from HR.

"Yep. Totally fine." I forced a smile. "Just, you know... reevaluating my entire existence."

She laughed. I wasn't joking.

By 12:03 p. m., the big guns arrived.

Karen Matthews, my boss, stopped in front of my desk, arms crossed. "Travis."

I looked up from my keyboard. "Karen."

She narrowed her eyes. "You've been off all morning. What's going on?"

I considered my options. Lie? Evade? Tell the truth and let the office gossip network explode like a nuclear bomb?

Instead, I went with: "Oh, just the usual. Had a wild weekend, found out my wife's been cheating on me, hired a lawyer, and now I'm here, crushing spreadsheets. You know, Monday things."

Karen stared at me.

I took a sip of coffee.

She blinked. "Okay... well... get it together. We've got a status update after lunch."

I gave her a thumbs-up. "Can't wait."

She rolled her eyes and walked away, muttering something about corporate America being filled with emotionally repressed lunatics.

She wasn't wrong.

After Karen left, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Get it together. Right. Because nothing screams "functional employee" like a guy who just nuked his entire life and is now pretending that Excel sheets are his new emotional support system.

I grabbed my laptop and headed to the conference room, where the status meeting for our latest government project was about to start. As technical lead, I had the pleasure of explaining why everything was still on track despite the endless red tape that made progress feel like dragging a boulder uphill.

As I entered, I scanned the room and spotted her.

Maggie Donaldson.

She was already seated, arms crossed, posture perfect, that unreadable expression she always wore set in stone. Blonde hair, green eyes, athletic build--the kind of woman who looked like she could outthink you, outrun you, and probably outshoot you if it came down to it. She was sharp, perceptive, and worked for one of those three-letter agencies that made people nervous.

The meeting started, and I ran through the status report, making my usual high-hearted jokes to keep everyone engaged.

"So, as you can see, we're about two weeks ahead of schedule, which is basically unheard of in government projects. Somewhere, a bureaucrat just fainted."

A few chuckles. Some nods. Business as usual.

But Maggie?

She wasn't looking at the screen. She was looking at me.

She didn't even pretend to be interested in the slides. Her gaze stayed locked onto me, sharp and too damn knowing.

I powered through the presentation, ignoring the growing sense that I was being analyzed like a damn case file.

When the meeting wrapped up and people started filing out, I shut my laptop and prepared to escape.

"Travis," Maggie's voice cut through the chatter, stopping me mid-step.

I turned. She was still sitting, watching me, waiting.

"Hold up," she said.

I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. "If this is about the font on slide three, I already know it was too small. I get one complaint every meeting."

She didn't laugh. She never laughed.

Instead, she tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. "Something's different."

I blinked. "Different?"

She nodded. "Your usual witty banter? It's not hitting. You're making jokes, but they're... light. Half-hearted. Like a comedian going through the motions."

I exhaled, shaking my head. "Jesus, I should just make a YouTube video explaining what happened and send people the link instead of going through this over and over." I gave a humorless chuckle. "Maybe I could monetize it. Make some money off my misery."

Her expression didn't change. Just that same calm, unreadable stare.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. Screw it. I told her.

Told her about Monica. Rick. The affair. The betrayal. The whole damn mess.

She listened. Didn't interrupt. Didn't react. Just sat there, absorbing every word.

When I finished, there was no awkward silence, no useless words of comfort.

She just stood, walked over, and hugged me.

It wasn't romantic. It wasn't some dramatic, cinematic moment. It was human. Warm. Steady. A reminder that I wasn't completely alone in this nightmare.

She pulled back, studying me for a second. "I get it."

I frowned. "You do?"

She nodded. "Divorced last year. Husband was sleeping around."

That shocked me. I looked at her--really looked at her. "Wait. You?"

She smirked, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Yeah. Apparently, being loyal, successful, and not a complete idiot wasn't enough for him."

I shook my head. "Some people are just staggeringly stupid."

She nodded. "That, they are." Then, she tilted her head slightly. "If you ever want to talk, vent--whatever--I'm a good listener."

I smirked. "Trained not to talk, huh?"

She actually smiled. Just a little. "Not even under torture."

And for the first time in days, I laughed. Really laughed.

And damn, it felt good.

The rest of the day was more of the same--co-workers stopping by my desk, throwing me concerned glances, asking vague questions, and me deflecting like my life depended on it. At this rate, I was starting to think I needed flashcards with pre-written responses.

- No, I'm not dying.

- Yes, I'm fine.

- No, I don't need to talk about it.

- Yes, I am now dead inside.

By mid-afternoon, I had fully accepted that my grand plan to use work as a distraction had backfired like a stick of Acme dynamite. Instead of burying myself in spreadsheets and technical reports, I spent the day dodging concerned glances and silently debating whether I should set up a GoFundMe for my emotional suffering.

By the time 5:30 p. m. rolled around, I grabbed my laptop and headed out, exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with work. I just wanted to get home, sink into the couch, and pretend for a few hours that my life wasn't currently on fire.

As I walked to my car, I felt an odd sense of comfort when I saw it--my beloved 2016 Subaru Outback, sitting in the parking lot like a loyal dog waiting for its owner. At least it hadn't betrayed me.

"Hey, buddy," I muttered, unlocking the door and sliding into the driver's seat. At least something in my life still made sense.

With a sigh, I started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, heading home.

And for the first time all day, I let myself be alone with my thoughts.

With a bag of greasy fast food sitting in the passenger seat, the smell of fried perfection filled the car. At least dinner was covered.

I sighed, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel as I waited at a red light. Adding 'learn how to cook' to my post-divorce checklist was officially necessary. Living off takeout was sustainable in my twenties--now? Not so much.

By the time I pulled into the neighborhood, the sun was starting to set, casting everything in that warm golden light that made it look peaceful. A complete contrast to the chaos that had been my life lately.

I parked in the driveway, grabbed the bags of food, and was one step away from heading inside when I spotted movement out of the corner of my eye.

Oh, for the love of--

There he was. Gary Thompson.

My other next-door neighbor. Retired. Had nothing but time on his hands and an Olympic-level talent for nosiness. He was out watering his lawn, the hose conveniently aimed a little too close to my driveway.

I knew what was coming.

"Evening, Travis," Gary called, shutting off the hose and wiping his hands on his cargo shorts.

I forced a polite nod. "Evening, Gary."

He gave me a look--the one. The 'I have questions, and you're gonna answer them' look.

"So..." He gestured toward my house with his chin. "Saw a lot of activity last week. You guys were loading up garbage bags into that truck."

I kept my face neutral. "Yep."

He waited. When I didn't elaborate, he leaned against the fence separating our yards. "Monica hasn't been home since then."

Oh, here we go.

I shifted the food bags in my hands. "Guess not."

Gary squinted. "Everything alright?"

I forced a chuckle. "Oh, you know. Just reevaluating some life choices."

He nodded slowly. "Uh-huh." Then, after a pause, "So... you two separating?"

I clenched my jaw. Damn it, Gary.

I sighed. "Look, Gary, I appreciate the concern, but it's been a long day."

Gary raised his hands. "Hey, I get it. Just, you know... people notice things."

I nodded. "I bet they do."

There was an awkward pause before Gary finally relented. "Alright, alright. You get inside before that food gets cold."

"Will do," I muttered, finally making my escape.

I closed the door behind me, locking it like I had just survived an interrogation.

One thing was clear--word was getting around.

Dinner at the table had been an awkward, tense affair the last few nights. But tonight? Something felt... different.

As I unwrapped my burger and took a bite, I noticed the kids seemed to be in higher spirits than the day before. Francis was cracking jokes, Beth was smiling more, and even Traci had a certain glint in her eye that hadn't been there since the explosion of our family.

I almost asked. Almost.

Instead, I watched them for a moment, noting the too-casual way they answered my questions and the way they kept exchanging glances.

They were up to something.

I decided to let it go for now, taking another bite of my food and joking to myself, Whatever's making them happy, I just hope they'd be considerate enough to share.

Still, something told me I probably didn't want to know.

I leaned back in my chair, wiping my hands with a napkin. "So, how was everyone's day?"

The three of them froze for a second, their reactions just a little too delayed before Francis cleared his throat. "Oh, you know. Just... a day."

Beth nodded quickly. "Yep. Nothing crazy."

Traci smirked slightly but said nothing.

I raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh."

Traci, ever the master of changing the subject, turned to me. "How was your meeting with the lawyer?"

This question immediately got the attention of the other two. Francis stopped eating, and Beth tilted her head slightly, waiting for my answer.

I sighed. "James Pearson is exactly the kind of lawyer I need. Relentless, calculated, and borderline terrifying."

Beth blinked. "Like, scary scary? Or 'we're about to take Mom for everything' scary?"

I smirked. "Both."

Francis whistled. "Nice. Sounds like the kind of guy who walks into a courtroom and owns the place."

"Pretty much," I agreed. "We went over all the details. What to expect, how this is going to go down, next steps. It's all moving forward."

They nodded, taking this in. They didn't look sad. Just... accepting.

After dinner, I decided I needed a distraction. Something loud, something action-packed, something Monica hated.

Which meant one thing.

I grabbed my old copy of The Rock--a 90s classic, complete with explosions, Nicolas Cage being peak Nicolas Cage, and Sean Connery giving exactly zero shits.

As the opening credits rolled, I stretched out on the couch and let out a long breath. For the first time all day, I felt... okay.

__________________

Monica:

I had been at my parents' house for a few days now, and I was miserable.

The couch was uncomfortable, their food was bland, and I had no privacy. But worse than all of that? I had nothing to do except sit in my own guilt and regret.

My dad barely spoke to me unless he had to. My mom still showed me kindness, but I could feel the disappointment radiating off of her. And I couldn't blame them.

So, I did what I had been doing for the last few days--complaining.

About how this wasn't fair. About how Travis wouldn't even talk to me. About how my own kids were turning against me.

Dad finally snapped.

"Jesus Christ, Monica," he said, setting his coffee down with enough force to make it rattle in the cup. "You need to get your shit together."

I blinked, stunned. "What?"

He leveled me with a glare. "Any day now, a process server is probably going to show up at the door with divorce papers in hand. This is happening. Whether you like it or not."

That's when I broke down.

I covered my face with my hands and sobbed. My entire body shook as the reality of his words settled over me like a weight I couldn't lift.

Dad sighed. I wasn't sure if it was from pity or exasperation. Maybe both.

For the first time since this whole thing started, he showed me a sliver of sympathy. He got up, walked over, and patted me on the head.

"All you can hope for now," he said, "is that Travis is fair in the settlement."

I looked up at him, my eyes red and swollen. "Dad..."

His expression hardened again. "But if you fight him, Monica? If you try to take this to war?" He exhaled sharply. "Then you risk losing your kids for good."

That sent me into a full-on sobbing fit.

He stepped back, rubbing his temples. "For God's sake, pull yourself together."

Just then, my mom walked into the room, frowning. "What is all this racket?"

Dad grabbed his coat and muttered, "I'm going somewhere quieter."

Mom raised an eyebrow. "Where?"

He gave a humorless chuckle. "I don't know. A bowling alley."

And just like that, he walked out the door.

The next morning, I woke up feeling restless. I couldn't just sit here and do nothing.

Travis and the kids weren't speaking to me, and I had no way of getting through to them. But there was one last option--Frank and Brenda Parker.

Travis's parents had always liked me. Respected me. Maybe they could talk some sense into him.

I grabbed my phone and hesitated for just a second before dialing.

The phone rang twice before I heard the familiar deep voice of Frank Parker.

"Monica," he said pleasantly, like this was just another day.

Relief washed over me. He didn't know.

"Frank, hi," I said quickly. "I was wondering if Brenda was around. I'd love to speak with her."

"Of course," he said easily. "Let me get her."

I waited, clutching the phone like a lifeline. A moment later, Brenda Parker's voice came through, cool and measured.

"Monica." A pause. "What do you want?"

I swallowed. Not the warm greeting I expected.

"Oh, you know, I just--just wanted to check in. See how you and Frank were doing."

Brenda sighed. "I don't do small talk, Monica. What's going on?"

Shit.

I let out a shaky breath. "Travis--he kicked me out. And now--now he might be divorcing me over a misunderstanding." My voice cracked, and I started sobbing.

Brenda didn't react.

No soft "Oh, sweetheart." No comforting words.

Instead, her tone turned sharp.

"What exactly did you do?"

My stomach twisted. "I--I just--"

"I asked you a question," she said, voice like steel.

The Brenda Parker I knew was calm, intelligent, and ruthless when she needed to be. She wasn't letting me dance around this.

I took a shaky breath. "I... I was seeing someone else."

Silence.

Long, heavy silence.

When Brenda finally spoke, her voice was disgusted. "You cheated on my son?"

I clenched my fists. "Brenda, I--"

"What do you plan to do for restitution?" she cut in.

I blinked. What?

"Travis and the kids are the injured party. What are you going to do to make it right?"

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

Restitution? I... I just wanted Travis to forgive me. To take me back. To fix this.

Brenda exhaled sharply. "Until you figure that out, what exactly do you expect me to do about it?"

I stammered. "I--I was hoping you could talk to him. Convince him to take me back."

Brenda let out a dry laugh. Cold. Unforgiving.

"No, Monica," she said. "Until you can answer my question, there's no use talking."

Then, without another word, she hung up.

I stared at my phone, my hands shaking. Brenda had hung up on me. No sympathy, no reassurance, nothing. She had always been composed, even kind, but the moment she realized what I had done, she cut me off without hesitation. Just like that.

I had no one left.

With a sinking feeling in my gut, I grabbed my laptop and started searching for a lawyer. I needed someone aggressive. Someone who could get Travis in a room and make him listen. If I could just talk to him--really talk to him--maybe I could make him understand that I never wanted this to happen.

After some digging, I found a divorce attorney with a reputation for being ruthless--but she wasn't cheap. Five hundred dollars an hour. My stomach twisted. There was no way I could afford that on my own.

I took a deep breath and went downstairs, where my parents were sitting in the living room. "I need help," I said, gripping the back of a chair. "I found a lawyer, but she's expensive. I need you to help with the cost."

Dad barely looked up from his newspaper. "I don't subsidize stupid decisions." His voice was cold. "I already told you, if you fight Travis, he'll rachet it up. You're not going to win this."

I clenched my fists. "I need someone to fight for my marriage! No one seems to care!"

Dad exhaled sharply and finally looked at me. "I'll help," he said. "If you accept Travis's proposal."

I gaped at him. "You're siding with him?"

Mom shook her head. "No, Monica. We're siding with reality." Her expression was unreadable, but her voice was firm. "You should have thought about all of this before you slept with someone else."

I opened my mouth to argue, but nothing came out.

Without another word, they both got up and left the room, leaving me standing there, stunned, alone, and completely out of options.

__________________

Post-Monica, Day Six.

Travis:

At this point, my daily routine had become a strategic game of avoidance. Every day at work, I dodged concerned co-workers, awkward conversations, and the occasional pitying glance. My boss, Karen, had stopped pressing, but I still caught her giving me "don't lose your shit in my office" looks whenever I passed by.

Even at home, I had to be careful. No one on the block knew what had happened yet, which meant I was constantly on high alert. The last thing I needed was to get cornered by Gary the Nosy Neighbor or some well-meaning neighbor asking, Hey, where's Monica? Haven't seen her in a while!

To make things worse, Monica's friends had already stopped by, sniffing around for details. I had barely cracked the door open before one of them hit me with, Oh my God, Travis, what happened?! like this was some trashy reality show.

I didn't play along. I gave them nothing, and after an uncomfortable pause, they left, clearly annoyed that I wasn't giving them a scandalous headline to gossip about.

And now, as the week from hell closed, my phone buzzed. I looked at the screen and saw Mom and Dad.

I sighed, answering. "Hey, Mom."

"Travis Parker," she said in that tone--the one that made me instinctively sit up straight. "Why am I finding out from Monica that my son is getting a divorce?"

I closed my eyes, already bracing myself. "You sound disappointed."

"I am."

I sighed. "Mom, you know what she did."

"Yes, and I would have liked to hear it from you, not from a woman trying to weasel her way back into your life."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "How'd she spin it?"

"She sobbed, said it was a misunderstanding, and tried to win me over with crocodile tears," Mom said flatly. "It didn't work."

I smirked. "Shocking."

"How are the kids handling it?" she asked.

I hesitated. "Honestly? Surprisingly well. Which is weird. Almost too weird."

Mom sighed. "Maybe they're tougher than you think."

Before I could respond, I heard my Dad on the other end. "Put me on," he said, his voice quieter than Mom's.

A second later, Dad's voice came through. "Travis, I just wanted to say... I'm sorry about the marriage. I know you tried."

I swallowed. "Yeah."

Then he sighed. "You realize you'll be the first Parker in four generations to get a divorce."

That hit different.

For the first time since this all started, the weight of it settled over me.

"Guess I'm making history," I muttered.

Dad was quiet for a moment, then just said, "Take care of yourself, son."

"You too."

We hung up, and I sat there, staring at my phone.

First in four generations.

Hell of a legacy.

__________________

Post-Monica, Day Nine.

Travis:

I sat at my desk at work when my phone buzzed--James Pearson. I stepped out into the hallway before answering. "Tell me you've got good news."

"It's done," Pearson said smoothly. "The paperwork is filed. We'll have her served within the next couple of days."

I exhaled, rubbing my temple. This was it. The moment where everything officially moved forward. "Do it," I said. "Let me know once it happens."

"Will do," he replied, his tone as sharp and efficient as ever. "And Travis? Stay the course. Don't let her guilt you out of this."

I smirked. "I hired an orca for a reason."

Pearson chuckled. "Smart man." Then he hung up.

I stood there for a moment, staring at my phone.

No turning back now.

__________________

Post-Monica, Day Ten.

Monica:

I had spent the morning in my childhood bedroom, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do with my life now.

My new lawyer had agreed to work with me on a contingency basis, which was a small victory, but it didn't make me feel any better. I was still living in my parents' house, still avoiding my dad's judgmental glares, and still completely alone.

I sighed and dragged myself downstairs. Mom was in the kitchen, ignoring me. That had become her new normal--not cruel, just... distant. Like she was still processing what I had done.

The doorbell rang.

I frowned, wiping my hands on my pajama pants before heading to the front door. We weren't expecting anyone.

When I opened it, a tall man in a gray suit stood on the porch, holding a thick manila envelope.

"Monica Parker?" he asked.

I blinked. Why did he sound so official? "Uh, yeah. That's me."

The man held out the envelope. "You've been served."

The words hit like a slap.

I stared at the envelope in his outstretched hand, my brain struggling to process what was happening.

"Wait, what?" My voice came out small, weak.

He didn't bother explaining. He simply snapped a photo of me holding the envelope--proof that I had received it--then turned and walked away.

I watched in stunned silence as he got into his car and drove off, leaving me standing there with divorce papers in my hands.

My hands shook as I clutched the envelope, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

This was real.

Travis had actually gone through with it.

I wasn't just living apart from my husband--I was about to lose him forever.

Tears blurred my vision as I slowly closed the door, gripping the papers like they might burn me.

I had known this was coming. But knowing and feeling were two different things.

And in that moment, I felt everything.

__________________

Post-Monica, Day Eleven.

Travis:

The workday was finally over, and I was heading to my car, already exhausted. Not from the job--no, that was easy. Dodging awkward questions, fake smiles, and the occasional 'Are you okay?' was the real drain.

As I rounded the corner of the parking lot, my steps slowed.

Because standing right by my car, dressed to the nines like she was heading to some high-end gala, was Monica.

I sighed, shaking my head. Ah. The first power move.

This was classic Monica. She was never one to lose gracefully, and if there was any chance of manipulating the situation back in her favor, she was going to take it.

I steeled myself.

Before walking over, I pulled out my phone and texted Pearson.

Me: Monica is waiting for me by my car.

It took seconds for a reply.

Pearson: Record everything.

I nodded to myself and hit record.

Then, I walked forward.

Monica turned as she saw me, her expression somber, her hands clasped in front of her. I could tell she was trying to look vulnerable, trying to play on my emotions.

"Travis," she said softly, taking a step forward.

I lifted my hand before she could get any closer. "Stop right there."

She hesitated but did as I said. "I just--"

"What do you want?" I asked, voice even, controlled. "Besides not being divorced."

She flinched. Not expecting that, huh?

She tried to recover, clearing her throat. "We don't have to do this. We--Travis, we have a family. We've built a life together. We can work through this. I know it's been hard, but we can fix it."

I stayed silent.

Monica blinked, shifting slightly. "I made a mistake. But--but people make mistakes all the time. We can go to therapy. We can rebuild."

Still, I said nothing.

And she noticed.

Her eyes narrowed. "Why aren't you saying anything?"

I took a slow breath, pushing down every ounce of rage trying to claw its way out. Not at her words--no, I'd expected this script.

But because she was standing here, wearing the same perfume she always used to wear for date nights, in a dress she knew made her look good, playing the role of the repentant wife--

Like this was a game.

Like our family wasn't real.

So I only had one question.

"Why?" My voice came out low. Controlled. Deadly.

She swallowed. "Why--why what?"

I met her eyes. "Why did you blow up your family for the neighbor?"

Monica stood there, shifting on her feet, unable to answer my question.

I waited, arms crossed, my expression neutral. "No answer?"

She swallowed. "I... I don't know, Travis."

I let out a short, humorless laugh. "That's rich. You don't know why you blew up your life for Rick?"

She winced. "It wasn't like that."

I tilted my head. "Really? Then how long?"

She tensed. "Travis--"

"How long?" I repeated, voice flat.

She exhaled, looking away. "I... I don't want to say."

"Well, let's take a guess," I said, tapping my chin mockingly. "Three weeks?"

She said nothing.

I nodded. "Five weeks?"

Still nothing.

I sighed. "Eight weeks?"

She flinched.

I let out a low whistle. "Wow. So you were screwing the neighbor while still telling me to pick up groceries for you. Classy."

Her face crumbled, and she started to cry.

I didn't care.

I let her sob for a while, arms still crossed, waiting for her to stop. Eventually, she did, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

I sighed. "Did you even look over the proposed settlement?"

She shook her head. "No."

I nodded. "Do you have a lawyer?"

"Yes."

I exhaled. "Then is there anything else?"

She hesitated, then asked, "How are the kids?"

I shrugged. "Surprisingly in a good mood. Not sure why, though."

Her face fell. "Maybe... maybe they're happy because I'm not home."

I shrugged again. "Maybe."

Her eyes filled with sadness, but I was fresh out of sympathy.

"Well, this has been fun," I said dryly. "Good talk."

Then, without waiting for her to say anything else, I got in my car and drove home.

__________________

Post-Monica, Day Fourteen.

Travis:

The weekend had gone by in a blur of takeout containers and old action movies. I had spent two nights reliving the golden era of explosions, slow-motion hero shots, and villains who actually knew how to monologue. At one point, Francis wandered in and asked if I was planning to grow out a mullet and change my name to Snake. I almost considered it.

Monday morning arrived too fast. When I walked into the office, I immediately noticed Maggie Donaldson standing next to my cubicle. She had never done that before. Maggie wasn't the type to just linger--she moved with purpose, always.

I raised an eyebrow. "Maggie. To what do I owe the honor?"

She barely acknowledged the joke, just tilted her head toward the nearby conference room. "Come on."

I followed, shutting the door behind us. Before I could ask what was up, she turned to me and got straight to the point. "How are you holding up?"

I let out a breath. "As well as I can, considering."

She nodded. "Yeah. I figured."

I leaned against the table, arms crossed. "Was there something you needed?"

She hesitated, then said, "I was out by my car last Friday."

I frowned. "Okay?"

She looked me in the eye. "I heard everything."

I exhaled through my nose. "Well. Guess I saved you from asking how that conversation went."

Maggie didn't smile. "Look, the offer still stands. If you need to vent, you should. Keeping all that in? It's not good."

I waved a hand dismissively. "I'm not angry."

She gave me a look. "Travis."

I sighed.

She nodded. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

Then she smirked just a little. "I'm back in town next Friday. Let's grab a drink."

I studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Sounds good."

__________________

Traci:

Two weeks had passed since we started Operation Ruin Rick's Sanity, and the first wave of our diabolical plan had finally hit.

Sitting in the living room, we watched through the house security camera feed as Rick stood in front of his mailbox, pulling out an absurd amount of junk mail--magazines, catalogs, random newsletters, and flyers that he clearly didn't sign up for. His face twisted in frustration as he struggled to hold onto all the mail, some of it slipping from his grip.

Francis burst out laughing. "Oh my God, look at him. He looks like he's trying to figure out where his life went wrong."

Beth giggled, covering her mouth. "It's only the beginning."

I smirked. "We need to ratchet it up."

Francis grinned. "Funny you should say that." He grabbed his laptop and started typing rapidly. "I've got an idea."

Beth and I leaned over to read the screen as he crafted a beautifully fake HOA letter.

"Dear Resident,

To comply with our 'Vibrant Community' initiative, all homes must now be painted neon green. Please submit proof of compliance by next Tuesday to avoid penalties."

I let out a snort. "Francis, that's evil."

He grinned. "I know. But think about it. Rick doesn't come across as particularly smart or the kind of guy who'd double-check with the actual HOA. He'll probably just do it."

Beth clapped her hands. "Oh! And the flamingos should be here soon."

Francis smirked. "Picture it: Neon green house. Front yard full of flamingos."

I grinned. "And then we hit him with phase three."

Beth wiggled her eyebrows. "Oh, don't worry. The crickets are on their way."

Francis blinked. "Wait. Crickets?"

Beth nodded proudly. "Ordered a whole box of them. We'll release them into his house and let the noise drive him insane."

Francis lost it, laughing so hard he nearly fell off the couch.

I folded my arms, feeling immensely proud of us. "Do it."

Rick Sullivan had no idea what was coming.

__________________

Post-Monica, Day 16.

Traci:

It had been a few days since we sent Rick his very official HOA notice, and today, the payoff was better than we could have imagined.

Through our security camera feed, we watched as Rick, dressed in an old tank top and covered in sweat, furiously painted the front of his house a blinding, radioactive shade of neon green. It was hideous.

Beth let out a gasp of delight. "Oh my God. He actually fell for it!"

Francis was doubled over laughing. "Dude didn't even question it!"

Things got even better when a real HOA representative happened to drive by.

We watched as the rep pulled over, stepped out of his car, and walked up to Rick, clearly confused. The conversation started calmly, but we could already tell by Rick's aggressive hand gestures that it was going downhill fast.

Then, it happened.

Rick shoved the HOA rep. Hard.

The poor guy stumbled backward, hit the ground, and immediately scrambled away, hands raised.

Rick yelled something unintelligible at him before grumbling and going right back to painting.

Francis wiped tears from his eyes. "I swear, this man should have cracked open a book instead of a tub of protein powder."

Beth was still laughing so hard she couldn't breathe. "This is... this is better than I could have imagined."

I smirked, watching Rick angrily slap more paint onto his house. This was only the beginning.

We were just sitting down for dinner--another round of takeout, because cooking was still a foreign concept in this house--when we heard the shouting.

It was loud. Angry. And coming from outside.

Without hesitation, the four of us shot up from the table and rushed to the front window. And there he was--Rick Sullivan, red-faced and furious, standing in his half-painted neon-green yard, yelling at a pair of cops.

Beth gasped, grabbing her phone. "Recording. Now."

Outside, the scene was glorious. The HOA rep must have called the police after getting shoved to the ground earlier, and now Rick was doing himself absolutely no favors. He was flailing his arms, getting in the officers' faces, looking one step away from completely losing it.

Then, another cop car pulled up. This time, the officer wasted no time pulling out a pair of handcuffs.

Francis whistled. "Ohhh, here we go."

Rick did not take well to being arrested. He yanked his arm away, tried to muscle through the situation, and for a second, it looked like he might actually break free.

Then--ZAP.

One of the officers hit him with a taser.

Rick's entire body seized up, and he went straight to the ground.

Beth nearly collapsed from laughing. Francis was crying.

And then, something even better happened--Dad laughed.

Not just a chuckle. A real, full, from-the-gut laugh. The kind we hadn't heard in weeks.

The cops loaded Rick into the car, and we stood there, wiping away tears of laughter.

Francis shook his head. "This is better than TV."

Dad sighed, still smirking. "Yeah. I needed that."

Later that night, after Dad had gone to bed, the three of us sat around the living room, plotting the next move.

"Alright," I said, leaning forward. "Tonight, we spread the birdseed. We'll hit his front lawn, backyard--hell, even his damn roof if we can."

Francis nodded. "And the burner phones?"

"We buy those tomorrow," I said.

Beth tilted her head. "And, uh... who's funding all this?"

I smirked. "Uncle Thomas."

Beth and Francis froze.

Beth blinked. "Wait--Dad's brother?. That Uncle Thomas?"

Francis let out a low whistle. "I mean, I'm not shocked, but damn."

Uncle Thomas had always been the wildcard of the Parker family. Successful, eccentric, a little too eager to stir the pot. But he had one major soft spot--me. As his goddaughter, I had only ever needed to ask.

Francis shook his head, but his smirk faded. "Alright, real talk--what are we doing about Mom?"

Beth tensed. "What about her?"

Francis sighed. "She's been texting me. A lot. Begging me to call her, saying we need to talk."

I shrugged. "Not my problem. She broke Dad's heart."

Francis exhaled. "Yeah... he's been different. Sarcastic, sure, but... I don't know. Sad."

I shook my head. "You've got it wrong."

Francis frowned. "What do you mean?"

"He's not sad," I said, voice even. "He's angry."

Francis scoffed. "Dad? Angry? No way. If he was pissed, we'd know."

Beth suddenly spoke up. "Would we?"

Francis glanced at her, confused. "What do you mean?"

Beth turned to him. "Think about it. Have you ever--in your entire life--seen Dad yell?"

Francis opened his mouth, then hesitated.

He thought about it.

Then, finally, he shook his head. "No."

I leaned back. "Exactly."

"Dad doesn't know how to vent his anger," I explained. "So it just sits there, buried. And it makes him look numb. But trust me--he's not."

Francis was quiet for a long time. Then he muttered, "That's... kinda terrifying."

Beth nodded. "Yeah."

We sat there in silence, the weight of it settling over all of us.

And for the first time, I wondered--if Dad ever did break, what would that even look like?

__________________

Post-Monica, Day 17.

Traci:

The next day, we watched from the window as an Uber rolled up in front of Rick's house. Fresh out of jail, but judging by his disheveled appearance and pissed-off expression, a night in lockup hadn't done him any favors.

The real fun started when he stepped out of the car and took in the absolute disaster that was his yard. Hundreds of birds--pigeons, crows, even a few seagulls--covered his front lawn, pecking furiously at the birdseed we had spread everywhere. His jaw clenched. He let out a loud shout and rushed at them, waving his arms.

Most of them scattered--but only to the power lines and trees. They sat there, watching. Waiting.

He muttered something under his breath and stormed toward his mailbox. When he opened it, an avalanche of junk mail poured out. He didn't even bother trying to grab it. Just let it fall, piece by piece, onto the already trashed lawn as he stomped toward his front door.

Gary, out mowing his lawn, paused and called out.

"Hey, Rick--you can't just leave all that mail on the ground!"

Rick whipped around, eyes burning with rage. "Mind your own damn business!"

Gary held up his hands and backed off.

Rick yanked open his door and slammed it shut behind him.

The second he was gone, the birds returned.

To the yard.

To the roof.

And just like that, his nightmare continued.

__________________

Post-Monica, Day 18.

Travis:

It had been another exhausting week of dodging curious co-workers and nosy neighbors. Every day at work felt like running a gauntlet of people fishing for information while trying to sound concerned. By the time Friday rolled around, I was more than ready for a night out.

When I walked into the bar, I spotted Maggie immediately. She was already waiting at the bar, dressed casually for once--jeans, a fitted top, hair down instead of her usual tight bun. She looked less like the terrifying government liaison I knew from work and more like an actual person.

She glanced up as I approached and nodded. "Travis."

"Maggie," I said with a smirk. "Glad to see you didn't change your mind."

She gestured toward a booth in the back. "Let's eat."

Once we sat down, we ordered some dinner and made small talk. For the first time, I realized that Maggie was... easy to talk to. Unlike the work version of her, who could silence a room with a single look.

I pointed that out, and she smirked. "That's my game face. Keeps vendors like you on your toes."

I chuckled. "Well, it works. You're pretty intimidating."

"Thanks," she said, amused.

We kept talking, and somehow, I ended up recounting my childhood in Chapel Hill, NC. My parents, my wild card of a brother, Thomas, and my school days. I talked about meeting Monica, how we fell in love, and of course, my kids.

At some point, I realized that Maggie hadn't shared a single personal detail about herself.

I raised an eyebrow. "Alright, I've been talking about myself for an hour. Your turn."

She smirked. "Can't. My life is classified."

I scoffed. "Oh, come on. Not everything is top secret."

She just raised a brow, amused.

I leaned forward. "Blink twice if you were raised by wolves."

That actually got a laugh out of her. A real, genuine laugh.

I grinned. "Huh. You've got a nice laugh."

Before she could respond, our drinks arrived--but so did a problem.

Some good-looking guy--tall, built, the type who looked like he had never skipped a gym day in his life--walked up and immediately started flirting with Maggie.

She ignored him.

I, on the other hand, apparently was invisible.

I raised a brow. "Wow. I don't even exist, huh?"

The guy, without even glancing at me, said, "Nah, I see you." Then, he gave me a once-over and smirked. "Just figured you were her brother or something. 'Cause you're definitely not competition."

I blinked.

Then he added, "Let's be real. You're kinda out of shape, man. And she is way out of your league, so unless you're related or just co-workers, I think I'll take it from here."

Maggie finally looked up.

And her expression? Ice cold.

The guy wasn't taking the hint. Or maybe he was just too dumb to recognize one.

Maggie had already turned back to her drink, clearly done with him, but he leaned in again, flashing his best smirk. "C'mon, sweetheart. Don't waste your night sitting here with--" he flicked a dismissive glance at me--"a buddy from work."

Maggie tensed, about to tell him off, but I beat her to it.

I set my drink down, sighing dramatically. "Wow. It's impressive, really. The confidence. The complete lack of self-awareness. It's like watching a poorly-written movie character come to life." I tilted my head. "Tell me, did you take a class on ignoring body language, or is that just a natural talent?"

The smirk wavered. "Excuse me?"

I leaned back, completely unfazed. "No, really. It takes a special kind of guy to look at a woman who is actively ignoring him and think, Yep, I should double down. That's some advanced-level delusion."

Maggie let out a snort into her drink.

The guy's face started to turn red. "Listen, dude--"

I held up a hand. "No, no, don't ruin it. I'm fascinated. Are you naturally this oblivious, or is it a gym-induced oxygen deficiency? Because--" I gestured vaguely at his arms--"all those muscles? Not helping."

Beth and Francis and Traci would have been so proud.

The guy's jaw clenched. He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, realizing he had nothing.

After a long, glorious moment, he muttered something under his breath and walked off.

Maggie stared at me, wide-eyed.

I just shrugged. "What? You're trained to resist torture. I do this for fun."

As we finished dinner, Maggie leaned back, sipping the last of her drink with a rare, relaxed expression.

"That was one of the best nights I've had in a while," she admitted.

I smirked. "You must have really low standards."

She rolled her eyes. "You really sell yourself short, you know that?"

I shrugged, dropping a couple of bills on the table for the tip. "Eh, it's a talent."

We walked out to the parking lot, and as we reached our cars, Maggie turned to me.

"We should do this again," she said. "Make it a regular thing."

I raised an eyebrow. "What, me getting harassed at bars while you practice your interrogation skills?"

She smirked. "Exactly."

I chuckled. "Sure, why not."

I turned toward my car when suddenly--a hand clamped down on my shoulder.

Before I could react, a fist slammed into my face, knocking me to the pavement.

Pain exploded through my ribs as a boot connected with my side.

I gasped, rolling over, and looked up to see the gym bro from the bar standing over me, fists clenched, eyes burning with rage.

"Got anything smart to say now?" he sneered.

Even through the pain, I let out a wheezy chuckle. "Yeah. Still not impressed."

His face twisted in fury, and just as he raised his fists to pound me into the pavement, something yanked him backward.

There was a loud thud, followed by a grunt as the air was knocked out of him.

I blinked, dazed, and saw Maggie kneeling on his back, one knee digging into his spine, her hand pressing his face into the concrete.

Without looking at me, she asked, "You good?"

I pulled myself up, leaning against my car. "Define good."

She nodded toward my pocket. "Call 911."

I pulled out my phone, hitting the emergency line. "Yeah, we need the police. Some jackass jumped me in the parking lot. My friend took him down."

The guy beneath Maggie struggled, cursing, but she barely budged. "Stop moving," she muttered, barely even winded.

"Do you... carry cuffs or something?" I asked, wincing as I touched my ribs.

Maggie scoffed. "My line of work doesn't issue cuffs."

I groaned and pushed off my car. "Fine. Let's improvise." I knelt beside her, pressing my knee into the guy's legs, helping keep him down.

As we waited for the cops, Maggie glanced at my face. "Your nose is a little off-center. Not your best look."

I laughed, then immediately regretted it as my ribs screamed in protest. "I think I'll survive."

A few minutes later, police cars pulled up, lights flashing. The officers jumped out, securing the guy in cuffs while an EMT came over to check me out.

As I sat on the bumper of the ambulance, letting them poke at my ribs, I looked over and saw Maggie talking to the police, back in full game-face mode.

She gestured toward the parking lot cameras, giving a crisp, professional rundown of what had happened.

Then, just for a second, she glanced my way.

I smiled.

And to my absolute surprise, she smiled back.

__________________

Post-Monica, Day 19.

Traci:

Beth's evil little shipment finally arrived--a box full of crickets.

Francis and I had laughed our asses off when she unboxed them, looking way too proud of herself. "Okay," she said, grinning like a mad scientist, "we do this at night. We get them under Rick's house so they spread inside."

So, under the cover of darkness, we did exactly that.

We crept over to Rick's house, carefully prying open a vent leading underneath. Beth, whispering a soft "Good luck, my little soldiers," dumped the entire box inside.

The crickets immediately scattered.

By the time Rick figured it out, the chirping would be non-stop, impossible to locate, and loud enough to drive a man insane.

And, just to make his life even worse, we started the flamingo invasion.

Each day, we added one plastic flamingo to his yard.

Just one.

At first, it would seem harmless, random. But as the days passed, Rick would realize... they were multiplying.

And we'd be watching.

Laughing.

Waiting for him to snap.

__________________

Post-Monica, Day 21.

Traci:

I had made it a personal mission to keep an eye on all things Rick Sullivan. It had become a daily source of entertainment, and at this point, it was better than any reality show. The man looked rough. Dark circles under his eyes, his usual cocky swagger replaced by a hunched-over exhaustion. The birds? Still there. The crickets? Still chirping. And now, on this fine Monday morning, I watched as a young blonde woman in a pencil skirt and blouse walked up to Rick's house, heels clicking on the pavement.

Rick, covered in paint and sweat, was outside trying to cover up the neon green paint. Every few strokes, he'd stop to clap his hands and yell at the birds, who would scatter for a moment before returning.

When he saw the woman, he immediately switched gears. I could see it happening in real-time--he wiped his hands on his shirt, puffed out his chest, and turned on the charm.

She wasn't having it.

She handed him a manila envelope, said something short, then snapped a photo of him holding it before turning on her heel and walking away.

Rick, clearly confused, opened the envelope.

Then, he exploded.

I could hear the cursing from across the street. He crumpled up the envelope, threw it to the ground, and stormed inside, slamming the door behind him.

My curiosity got the better of me.

I waited a minute before sneaking across the street, keeping low as I grabbed the discarded paperwork. One glance at the bolded header, and I nearly burst out laughing.

Rick was being sued for assaulting the HOA guy.

I snapped a quick photo of the lawsuit, placed it back where I found it, and hurried home.

This? This was gold.

__________________

Post-Monica, Day 23.

Traci:

With Dad at work, Francis out with his friends, and Beth borrowing my car, I had the house to myself. So, naturally, I was making the most of it--lounging in the backyard, soaking up the summer sun, iced tea in hand, and feeling absolutely zero guilt about it.

I was about two seconds away from dozing off when I heard it--a knock at the front door.

My instincts immediately kicked in, and I grabbed my phone to check the security camera feed.

And there he was.

Rick Sullivan.

Looking like absolute hell.

Even through the camera, I could see the dark circles under his eyes, the twitchy movements, the sheer desperation in his posture. His sleepless nights and slow descent into madness were finally catching up to him.

I smirked to myself. Good.

Part of me wanted to ignore him. Let him stew. Let him suffer. But another part of me? The part that enjoyed confrontation?

That part wanted to answer.

So I did.

But not nicely.

I yanked open the door, leaned against the frame, crossed my arms, and glared. "What the hell do you want, Rick?"

He flinched at my tone, but I didn't care. This wasn't a friendly visit.

Rick shifted on his feet, glancing around nervously before locking eyes with me. "Uh... can I come in?"

I scoffed, crossing my arms tighter. "Absolutely not. Whatever you have to say, you say it right here."

His jaw tightened slightly, but he nodded. "Alright, fine." He tried small talk first, which was a huge mistake. "Haven't seen Monica around lately. Not at home, not at the gym."

I felt my blood boil.

Rick had the audacity to stand here--at my house--and ask about my mother, the woman he helped destroy my family?

The rage came out before I could stop it.

"Oh, I'm sorry, are you looking for your little affair partner?" I snapped. "You mean the married woman you decided to screw around with? The one who lost her husband, her kids, and her entire life because of your dumb ass?"

Rick stiffened, his nostrils flaring. "Look, kid--"

"Oh no, you shut the hell up. You don't get to come here, acting all clueless, pretending you don't know why she's gone." I leaned forward, voice dripping with venom. "She's out of your life. Just like you'll be out of this neighborhood soon enough. Because let me tell you, everyone here hates you."

Rick's face darkened. "You little bi--"

Before he could finish, he shoved me.

Hard.

I slammed back against the door, pain shooting through my shoulder.

And that's when he really lost it.

He started spitting insults, calling me every name in the book. Ranting, raving, making threats like some kind of deranged lunatic.

But I just smirked.

"You done?" I asked, voice calm.

Rick froze, rage flickering into something uncertain.

I turned, opened the door, and stepped inside. Cool, unfazed. "You should leave now," I said over my shoulder.

Rick stormed back to his house, screaming curses the whole way.

And me?

I just grinned.

Because I had everything recorded.

The second I closed the door, I pulled out my phone and dialed 911.

The dispatcher's voice came through, calm and professional. "911, what's your emergency?"

I took a steadying breath. "Yeah, my neighbor just assaulted me on my front porch. I have everything on video."

The police arrived fast. Within minutes, two officers stood on my porch, taking my statement while I showed them the footage. One of them smirked.

"Hell of a rant," he muttered, shaking his head as he watched me verbally eviscerate Rick before he shoved me.

"Thanks," I said dryly. "I work hard at it."

The officer turned serious. "Do you want to press charges?"

"Absolutely."

Minutes later, backup arrived. Three officers walked straight to Rick's house, and for once, he didn't fight it. No yelling, no resisting.

He came out, hands already in the air, looking like a man who knew he'd lost.

As they walked him to the back of the patrol car, though, he found his voice.

"THIS ISN'T OVER!" he shouted, his face red with fury. "YOU THINK YOU'VE WON? YOU THINK THIS MEANS ANYTHING?"

I watched from the doorway, arms crossed, completely unimpressed.

I was done.

As the patrol car door slammed shut, I said to myself, Yeah. It's time for a restraining order.

__________________

Post-Monica, One Month.

Travis:

I was just getting home from work when my phone rang--James Pearson.

I sighed, already bracing myself. "Tell me it's good news, James."

A rare chuckle from the other end. That wasn't a good sign.

"Well, Monica's lawyer sent over a counterproposal," he said, his voice edged with amusement and mild irritation.

I unlocked my front door, stepping inside. "Let me guess," I said, kicking off my shoes. "She's not happy?"

"Oh, she's very unhappy," Pearson replied. "The counteroffer is clearly designed to drag this out. Either to make it too expensive for you to fight or to just inflict maximum damage."

I let out a laugh--a real, genuine laugh--until my broken ribs reminded me why that was a bad idea. I winced, gripping my side. "Let me guess, she's also asking for something completely ridiculous?"

"Oh, you'll love this," Pearson said dryly. "She's asking for full custody of Beth."

That made me stop in my tracks.

I blinked. "Beth?"

"Beth," he confirmed. "Which, I assume, means Beth absolutely does not want to live with her."

I smirked, shaking my head. "Yeah, that's a safe bet."

Pearson chuckled again. "That's what I figured."

I sat down, rubbing my temples. "Let me guess--she also wants marriage counseling."

"Oh, of course," he said smoothly. "That's in bold."

I rolled my eyes. "Hard no."

Pearson didn't sound surprised. "Figured as much. So, what's the play here?"

I exhaled. "Go with Plan B. No negotiation, no dragging this out. Shut this down."

Pearson hummed approvingly. "Consider it done."

I hung up and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

Monica was desperate.

And I wasn't playing her game.

---------------

Work had finally returned to something resembling normal. People had gotten bored of trying to get details out of me, and office gossip had shifted to whatever reality show or murder documentary was trending that week. Fine by me.

I sat through our weekly project status meeting, barely paying attention as the project manager droned on about timelines and deliverables. But what did get my attention? Maggie.

She was stealing glances at me. Not obvious ones, but enough that I noticed she was paying more attention to me than the screen. I smirked to myself--her "game face" was slipping.

After the meeting, as I gathered my things, Maggie pulled me aside.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, arms crossed.

I smirked. "Well, my ribs still hurt, but I'm healing. Unlike that guy, who will never recover from the verbal beating I gave him."

Maggie snorted--actually snorted--and quickly tried to suppress her laugh.

I grinned. "Oh wow. I got you twice now. I should keep score."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't push it."

We walked toward the hallway, and she glanced at me. "How's the divorce going?"

I sighed. "Monica's pushing back. She wants custody of Beth. And marriage counseling."

Maggie raised an eyebrow. "So basically, she realized she threw away a great guy and now wants him back?"

I let out a dry chuckle. "Something like that."

She smirked. "Well, anyone with a half a brain would snatch you up."

I raised an eyebrow. "You flirting with me, Donaldson?"

She just smirked.

Then she added, "When you're healed up, we should go out again."

I nodded. "Yeah. I'd like that."

__________________

Post-Monica, Two Months.

Traci:

It had been a hell of a ride watching Rick's life fall apart in real-time, and today was just another chapter in his never-ending downfall. Thanks to his inability to follow basic legal instructions, he had violated the terms of his bond for assaulting me, which meant the judge had revoked it completely. Now? Rick was sitting in jail until his trial.

This morning, as I sat drinking coffee in the living room, I spotted two men in suits walk up to his front door. They taped a notice to it, glanced around, and left without knocking. My curiosity immediately piqued.

Beth, Francis, and I snuck over as soon as they were gone.

Francis pulled the paper off the door and grinned. "Foreclosure notice."

Beth gasped. "No way."

I snatched the paper, reading it over quickly. It was official--Rick was losing his house.

We bolted back to our place, and the moment we were safely inside, we burst into celebration. Beth grabbed snacks, Francis played celebratory music, and we all reveled in the sweet, sweet karma.

Two days later, Francis ran into the house grinning like a madman.

"You're gonna love this," he said, barely able to contain himself. "A tow truck just came by and took Rick's truck."

Beth cheered.

I smirked, arms crossed. "Good. I hated that truck."

__________________

Travis:

I woke up to the sound of crickets. A lot of crickets.

For a second, I thought I was imagining it--a weird leftover dream or maybe a side effect of all the stress. But no. The sound was very real, very loud, and coming from the garage.

I frowned, rolling out of bed. What the hell?

Following the noise, I walked downstairs and toward the garage door, pausing when I heard muffled voices.

Beth and Francis. Arguing.

I cracked open the door just enough to listen.

"I'm telling you, we have to get rid of them!" Francis hissed.

"Well, it's not my fault half of the shipment got delayed," Beth shot back. "Do you know how hard it is to order this many crickets?"

Francis groaned. "Okay, but Rick is gone, and now we're sitting on way too many damn crickets!"

Beth huffed. "Fine! But what about the pink flamingos and all the extra birdseed?"

I stood there in silence, processing the sheer absurdity of the conversation.

Slowly, I closed the door and backed away.

I rubbed my temples, walking back upstairs.

As I climbed back into bed, I suddenly realized I hadn't seen Rick in weeks.

His truck? Gone.

His nightly angry shouting? Gone.

I lay back, staring at the ceiling, joking to myself, God, I hope the kids didn't hide the body.

Then I sat up, blinking.

... They wouldn't, right?

I shook my head and flopped back down.

Nope. Not thinking about that.

__________________

Monica:

I stared at the single line on the test, my breath shaky, my chest tightening.

Negative.

For weeks, I had been drowning in fear, wondering what I would do if the worst had happened--if I was pregnant with Rick's baby.

But now? That weight was gone.

I let out a shaky breath, wiping at my eyes. I should've felt relieved. And part of me was.

But the other part?

It just felt empty.

I walked into the living room, where my parents were watching some crime show.

They looked up as I stood there, wringing my hands.

"The test was negative," I blurted out.

My mom exhaled in relief. "Oh, thank God."

My dad, though?

He just shook his head.

"Well," he said, his voice flat, "it would've been better if you hadn't cheated on Travis in the first place. Then news like this wouldn't even be necessary."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut.

Tears welled in my eyes before I could stop them.

I turned and fled the room, choking on a sob.

Behind me, I heard my mom stand up sharply.

For a second, I thought she was going to scold him.

But then she sighed.

And instead, she muttered, "You're not wrong."

__________________

Post-Monica, Three Months.

Travis:

I was halfway through my morning coffee when my phone buzzed. James Pearson.

I sighed, already bracing myself for some kind of headache. "Tell me you've got good news, James."

There was a long pause. "It's... progress," he admitted.

I rubbed my temple. "Not exactly the victory speech I was hoping for."

"Mediation is not moving as fast as I'd like," Pearson continued. "Monica's lawyer is dragging things out, but I've got them closer to caving."

I took another sip of coffee. "Define 'closer.'"

"They're willing to sign off on your original proposal," Pearson said. "If--and this is a big if--you agree to ten counseling sessions."

I blinked. "Counseling?"

"Yep. Ten sessions. That's their condition."

I almost laughed. Monica thought sitting through ten hours of awkward therapy sessions would fix what she had done?

I exhaled, leaning back in my chair. "I'll be honest, James. I don't love it."

"I know," he said. "But I also know you want this over with."

I stared at the ceiling, weighing my options.

Dragging this out for months longer or sitting through ten sessions of pointless talking to get it done?

I sighed. "I need to think about it."

Pearson didn't argue. "Take a week. Let me know."

"Yeah," I muttered, running a hand through my hair. "I'll get back to you."

I ended the call and stared at my coffee.

Ten sessions.

Was it worth it?

--------------------------

I was heading out for the day, keys in hand, when I saw Maggie standing near the exit.

That was unusual.

Normally, she only showed up at the office on status meeting days, and today was definitely not one of those days.

Curious, I approached her. "Maggie," I greeted with a nod. "Did I miss a meeting, or is this a surprise audit?"

She smirked. "Relax, your project's fine."

I raised an eyebrow. "So, what brings you here?"

Maggie hesitated just for a second, then crossed her arms. "I was actually looking for you."

That caught me off guard. "Oh?"

She tilted her head slightly. "How are you feeling?"

I smirked. "Like a guy who got punched in the face but lived to tell the tale."

She chuckled. "So, better then."

"Getting there."

She nodded, then said, "You wanna go dancing?"

I blinked. "Come again?"

Maggie smirked. "My sister and her husband are going out dancing this weekend. They dragged me into it, so I figured I'd drag you, too."

I chuckled. "So, I'm a hostage?"

"Basically."

I pretended to think about it. Then I smirked. "Why not."

She gave me the time and place to meet, then turned to leave but paused. "And, you know... you don't have to dance if you don't want to."

I shrugged. "Guess we'll see."

She gave me a knowing smile and walked off.

I watched her go, then shook my head and headed out.

Dancing, huh?

This should be interesting.

------------------------

The weekend arrived faster than expected, and as I finished getting ready to go out, I heard a knock on my bedroom door. A second later, Beth popped her head in, her arms crossed, eyes full of mischief.

"Alright," she said, leaning against the doorframe. "Who's the girl?"

I sighed, shaking my head. "There's no 'girl,' Beth."

She smirked. "Bull. You don't go out on a Saturday night in a button-down unless there's a girl."

I sighed. "It's just a friend from work. We're going dancing."

Beth snorted, actually snorted. "Dancing? You?"

I gave her a look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Beth laughed. "Just... try not to break anything, okay?"

I rolled my eyes and finished getting ready, ignoring her giggles as she walked away.

------------------------

I pulled into the parking lot, already second-guessing this.

That feeling only got worse when I looked up and saw a large, neon-lit sign over the club entrance.

Salsa Competition Tonight!

I shook my head, muttering to myself. Of course.

Still, I had already committed. I stepped inside, scanning the room until I spotted Maggie.

And damn.

She stood near the bar, wearing a sleek black salsa dress that hugged her athletic frame. Next to her was a woman who looked similar to Maggie but slightly taller, wearing a gold dress that shimmered under the lights. Standing beside her was a well-dressed man in Latin dance pants and a fitted long-sleeve shirt.

I made my way over, already suspecting who they were.

Maggie turned when she saw me and smiled. "Travis, you made it."

I smirked. "Would've been nice to know about the competition."

She chuckled. "Surprise." Then, she gestured to the couple next to her. "This is my sister, Lorna, and her husband, Michael Thompson."

I shook hands with both of them. "Nice to meet you."

Maggie grinned. "Lorna and Michael compete. Once the competition is over, the club opens up the floor to everyone."

I nodded slowly. So that's how it was.

Guess I was in for a show.

------------------------

Maggie and I found a table with a good view, watching as couple after couple took the floor, each moving with effortless grace. The competition was intense--spins, sharp footwork, and perfectly timed dips--and I had to admit, it was impressive.

I leaned over slightly. "Do you know how?"

Maggie shrugged, giving a non-committal answer. "I've danced a little."

I smirked. Typical Maggie. Always giving just enough of an answer to dodge the real one.

Lorna and Michael placed second, coming back to the table smiling, though I could tell Michael was a little annoyed he didn't take first. The competition wrapped up, and the DJ announced the dance floor was now open to the public.

Maggie turned to me, grinning. "Alright, Travis. Let's dance."

I groaned. "Do I have to?"

Lorna smirked. "It's not complicated."

Michael nodded. "Basic steps, no pressure."

I sighed, pushing my chair back. "Fine."

We walked onto the floor, and Maggie took her position. I did the same.

Then, the music started.

And I danced.

Not just moved around the floor, not just awkwardly stepped to the beat--I really danced.

My footwork was clean, precise, effortless. Every turn, every movement was sharp and controlled.

Maggie? She struggled to keep up.

I noticed quickly, adjusting to make it easier for her, keeping things smooth but still fluid enough to make it look good.

Then I noticed something else--the room had gone quiet.

By the time the song ended, people were staring.

Maggie, breathing hard, looked at me in shock. "How the hell?"

I just shrugged and walked back to the table, where Lorna and Michael sat wide-eyed.

Michael blinked. "That's rusty?"

I smirked. "It's been 10 years."

Before I could sit down, one of the competition judges walked up. "Travis?"

I looked over. "Chris."

Chris grinned. "Damn. Never thought I'd see you on a dance floor again. Not since you and Monica stopped competing."

Maggie turned to me, then back to Chris. "Wait--competing?"

Chris chuckled. "You don't know? Travis and Monica won seven state championships and a bunch of regional titles in different dance disciplines."

Maggie's eyes widened. "Seriously?"

Chris smiled. "Watching those two was like watching art."

He clapped me on the shoulder. "Good seeing you, Travis." Then he walked off.

Maggie turned back to me, still processing.

I smirked. "Surprise."

The rest of the night, we danced--this time, I toned it down to match Maggie's level.

But for the first time in a long, long time, I felt like myself again.

------------------------

As we stepped out into the night, Maggie turned to me, her expression unreadable but full of something unspoken.

"Want to come up to my hotel room for a nightcap?" she asked casually, but there was an edge to it. An invitation to something more.

I knew exactly where this was heading.

For a moment, I hesitated. The rational part of me--the one that had spent the last three months focused on divorce papers, custody battles, and dodging nosy coworkers--was screaming at me to say no.

But the other part? The tired, lonely, human part?

That part wanted this.

"Sure," I said, forcing a grin. "But just for an hour."

Maggie smirked. "Of course."

I followed her car to the hotel, my mind running a hundred miles an hour.

By the time we reached her room, she had looped her arm through mine, her body warm against my side.

She unlocked the door, kicked off her heels, and collapsed onto the couch, motioning for me to sit beside her.

I did.

She turned to me, eyes lingering on mine, and leaned in.

Before her lips could touch mine, I stopped her.

My hand cupped her cheek for a brief second before I pulled back, standing abruptly.

"I--I shouldn't have come," I muttered, running a hand through my hair. Damn it, Travis.

Maggie stood, frowning. "Travis, what's wrong? I thought--"

I sighed. "I do. I want this."

She tilted her head. "Then what's the problem?"

I exhaled, looking away. "Because... I'm still married."

Maggie blinked. "But you're separated."

"Yeah. But separated isn't divorced." I let out a humorless chuckle, shaking my head. "My vows meant something. They were a promise. I need to see this through before I can--before I can be with someone else."

Maggie studied me for a long moment. Then, she smiled.

"I wish my ex had felt the same way," she said softly. Then, with a small chuckle, "But you're certainly not my ex."

I looked up.

She shrugged. "I wouldn't expect anything less from you, Travis."

I swallowed hard, nodding.

She stepped closer and kissed me lightly on the cheek.

"We'll keep this friendly," she said. "I won't push for more. Not until you're ready."

I exhaled, relieved. Grateful. "Thanks, Maggie."

I left the hotel, got in my car, and pulled out my phone.

Me: Go ahead and agree to the counseling. Let's get this divorce over with.

I hit send.

Because I knew exactly what I wanted.

And it sure as hell wasn't Monica.

------------------------

Two days after agreeing to the counseling sessions, I was getting ready to leave work when my phone rang. I glanced at the screen and froze. Thomas.

I hadn't spoken to my brother in years. Not since he left for Australia after Mary died. For him to call me out of the blue? That wasn't a good sign.

I answered cautiously. "Thomas?"

"Travis," came the familiar deep voice, calm but with an edge of disappointment. "I had to hear from Traci that you and Monica are getting divorced. Not you."

I sighed, already knowing where this was going. "I--yeah. I should've called."

"No kidding," he said flatly. "So, how are you holding up?"

I leaned against my car, running a hand through my hair. "Honestly? Mixed bag of emotions. Some days, I feel fine. Other days... I want to burn everything down."

Thomas let out a short chuckle. "Yeah. Sounds about right."

There was a pause, then his voice softened. "Listen... if you need anything, you can come visit. Australia's not the worst place to disappear for a while."

Hearing that nearly knocked the wind out of me. Because it wasn't just an invitation--it was him reaching out. The man who had all but vanished after losing his wife.

I swallowed hard. "Appreciate that, man. Really."

He was quiet for a moment, then asked, "How's the divorce looking?"

"Slow," I admitted. "Monica's dragging it out, but I'm trying to speed things up."

He exhaled sharply. "She's realizing she screwed up, isn't she?"

"Yep."

Another pause. Then, "Hang in there, Travis."

I nodded, even though he couldn't see it. "You too."

We ended the call, and I stood there for a moment, just staring at my phone.

Maybe, just maybe... Thomas wasn't as lost as I thought.

After my call with Thomas, I dialed James Pearson to ask how this counseling thing was actually supposed to work.

James answered immediately. "Travis, what's up?"

"How does this marriage counseling stipulation work?" I asked, rubbing my temple. "Do I get a say in the therapist, or is this another thing Monica gets to control?"

There was a pause, then a sigh. That wasn't a good sign.

"Well, Monica already picked someone," he admitted. "Dr. Willow Carr."

I frowned. "And I... don't get a say in that?"

"You do," he said. "But from experience, I can tell you that trying to agree on a neutral therapist can drag on for weeks, maybe months. Some of them can be one-sided. It's part of the strategy--stall, delay, make it as frustrating as possible so you cave."

I sighed. "Great. More delays."

James chuckled dryly. "Welcome to divorce, my friend."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Fine. I'll just deal with Monica's pick. How bad can Dr. Willow Carr be?"

There was a beat of silence on James's end.

Then, finally, he said, "I guess we'll find out."

__________________

Post-Monica, Three Months -- Session 1.

Travis:

I arrived at Dr. Willow Carr's office early, mostly because I wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.

The waiting room was what I expected--sterile, neutral colors, the faint scent of lavender, and an absurdly perfect arrangement of magazines that no one actually wanted to read.

I sat down, pulled out my phone, and scrolled mindlessly until the door opened.

Monica walked in.

For the first time in months, she wasn't dressed to impress. No form-fitting dress, no heels. Just jeans, a sweater, and sneakers. A part of me registered the shift, but I shoved the thought away.

She smiled. "Hey, Travis."

I barely looked up. "Monica."

She hesitated, then sat in the chair across from me.

I grabbed the nearest magazine, flipping it open without actually looking at it.

Monica sighed. "Really?"

I kept my eyes on the pages. "What?"

She leaned forward. "What could possibly be so interesting in Vanity Fair right now?"

I glanced at the page, only now realizing what I had picked up.

I cleared my throat. "Well, according to this... 'Inside the Secret Lives of Hollywood's Most Famous Pet Psychics' is a must-read."

Monica blinked.

I held up the magazine, nodding seriously. "Apparently, someone's cat predicted the stock market crash of 2008. I am invested now."

For a second, I saw the ghost of a laugh flicker across her face.

Then, the office door opened, and a voice called out:

"Travis? Monica? Dr. Carr will see you now."

Showtime.

As Monica and I stepped into Dr. Willow Carr's office, I took in the neutral beige walls, soft lighting, and an excessive number of decorative pillows on the couch. It was exactly what I expected--designed to make people feel comfortable while making them deeply uncomfortable at the same time.

Dr. Carr herself was thin, somewhere between her late 40s and early 50s, with graying shoulder-length hair pulled into a loose bun. She wore casual clothes, the kind of outfit that said, I'm approachable, but also, I will dismantle your emotional walls piece by piece.

The moment we walked in, her entire demeanor warmed toward Monica.

"Monica," she said with a smile, reaching out to shake her hand with both of hers. "It's so good to see you again."

Again?

I glanced at Monica, eyebrows raised. She's met with her already? Well, that's not concerning at all.

Then, Dr. Carr turned to me, and her warmth noticeably dimmed.

"Travis," she greeted, offering a significantly less enthusiastic handshake.

I shook it anyway. "Dr. Carr."

She shook her head. "Oh, no need for that."

She gestured toward the couch, motioning for us to sit.

"Call me Willow."

I sighed internally and took a seat.

Yeah. This was going to be fun.

As Monica moved to sit next to me on the couch, I grabbed one of the decorative pillows and placed it firmly between us.

Willow paused, glancing up from her notepad. Noted.

Monica sighed. "Really, Travis?"

I didn't answer, just leaned back and crossed my arms. It was a pillow or me getting up and standing in the corner like a scolded child.

Willow, sitting in her oversized chair like a neutral referee, folded her hands in her lap. "Alright," she said, her tone calm but firm. "Before we begin, let's go over the session rules."

I tuned out most of it. Basic therapy guidelines. Be respectful. Listen. No interruptions. Blah, blah, blah.

Then she got to the real question.

"What do you both want from these sessions?"

Monica straightened up, speaking first. "I want reconciliation. I want to fix our marriage."

Willow nodded approvingly and jotted something down.

Then both of them turned to me.

I exhaled slowly. "I want out."

Monica whipped her head toward me, eyes wide. "Travis--"

Willow lifted a hand, stopping her.

She scribbled down something in her notepad--a little too aggressively, if you ask me.

"I see," she said. "Well, I'm here to help you both find your way back to each other. But before that, I need to understand the full picture."

I clenched my jaw. Here we go.

Willow continued, "For today, I'd like to hear about your relationship--from the beginning, up until the day Monica moved out."

She turned to Monica. "Monica, we'll start with you."

I internally groaned.

Monica smiled softly, as if this was some romantic recollection instead of a complete waste of my time.

"Well," she began, "we met in college..."

And just like that, she launched into our history.

I sat there, arms crossed, exerting every ounce of willpower not to interrupt as she painted an alternate reality.

According to Monica, we had an amazing marriage, but over time, I became distant. I was emotionally closed off, focused on work, and she felt invisible.

She spoke about her loneliness, about how she had "tried" to reconnect with me, but I was too distracted.

She conveniently skipped over the part where she decided to screw Rick.

By the time she finished, Willow gave her a warm smile. "Monica, thank you for sharing that. That took strength."

I let out a slow breath. "Wow."

Willow turned to me, expression shifting. "Something to say, Travis?"

I leaned forward. "I was just thinking--if that version of events were any further from reality, I'd have to start calling her a fantasy novelist."

Willow's face hardened.

"Travis," she said sharply, like she was scolding a five-year-old. "That is not helpful."

I stared at her, biting my tongue.

No, but lying is?

She straightened. "Alright. That's all for today. I'll see you both next week."

I shot up from the couch, grabbed my keys, and speed-walked out of there.

By the time I reached my car, I could finally breathe again.

And I had only one thought--

I need to get this divorce over with. Fast.

__________________

Post-Monica, Four Months -- Session 2

Travis:

I sat in the waiting room, already exhausted before even stepping into the session.

I reached for my phone, about to scroll through absolutely anything to distract me, when something caught my eye--another ridiculous magazine article.

I picked up the magazine, flipping straight to the page:

"Are Your Houseplants Plotting Against You? 10 Signs of a Silent Rebellion!"

I smirked. Gold.

Before I could get past the first paragraph, the door opened.

Monica walked in.

She looked about the same as last time--dressed casually, her hair pulled back, no attempt at dressing up for me anymore.

Good.

"Hi, Travis," she greeted softly.

I quickly raising it in front of my face like I was deeply invested in the dangers of scheming succulents.

She took a seat across from me. I could feel her watching me.

After a few moments of silence, she spoke.

"How are the kids?"

I didn't look up. "Traci's back at school in New York. Francis likes UNC."

She nodded slowly. "That's good."

There was another pause. I thought--hoped--that would be the end of it.

But Monica wasn't done.

She let out a small sigh. "Beth won't return my texts."

I froze mid-page turn.

She continued, her voice quieter now. "She didn't even text me back on her birthday."

I set the magazine down. Now she had my full attention.

I stared at her. "I'll talk to her."

Monica swallowed, nodding, but her eyes filled with tears.

"I just--" Her voice broke. "I miss her."

I watched as a single tear rolled down her cheek.

And for the first time in a long time, my instinct was not to comfort her.

I just sat there.

And said nothing.

The receptionist looked up from her desk and gave a tight smile. "Dr. Carr is ready for you."

Monica and I both stood up--well, she stood up. I dragged myself out of the chair like I was heading to an execution.

We entered the same beige office, the same dim lighting, the same ridiculous number of decorative pillows that served no real purpose.

And of course, Willow Carr was waiting in her usual seat, giving Monica a warm smile like she was greeting an old friend.

"Monica," she said warmly. "How are you feeling today?"

"Better," Monica said, returning the smile.

Willow then turned to me. "Travis," she greeted, noticeably less warm.

I gave a curt nod. "Willow."

We took our usual seats, and just like last time, I grabbed a pillow and placed it between us.

Willow's pen moved immediately, scribbling something down.

Monica sighed. "Really, Travis?"

I ignored her.

Willow set down her pen. "Alright, before we begin, let's go over the rules again."

I barely listened. Same nonsense as last time. Be respectful, don't interrupt, don't place blame--

Then, she turned to me.

"Travis, today is your turn to speak."

I nodded. "Great."

"But," she added, raising a hand, "I want to remind you that this is a safe space, so please refrain from placing blame."

I frowned. "Excuse me?"

She smiled that irritating therapist smile. "This is about your experience, not about accusing Monica of anything."

I scoffed. "Oh, so she gets to sit here and paint a totally revised version of our marriage without interruption, but I get a warning?"

Willow ignored that. "Travis, proceed."

I exhaled sharply.

Fine.

So I told my side of the story.

I spoke about the gradual distance, how I had believed we were just in a rough patch. How I trusted Monica, how I never thought she would--

"Travis," Willow interrupted, "do you think it's possible that Monica felt unheard?"

I blinked. "Are you serious?"

She nodded.

I clenched my jaw. "I didn't ignore her, Willow. I wasn't distant. I worked. I took care of my family. And while I was doing that, she was screwing the neighbor."

Willow's eyebrow twitched. "Travis, let's focus on--"

"No, let's focus on how you didn't interrupt Monica once last session."

Monica shifted uncomfortably. Willow remained calm, but I could tell she was irritated.

The session ended shortly after.

Willow clasped her hands together. "This session could have gone better. Let's try again next week."

I stood up immediately.

I didn't say a word. I just grabbed my keys and walked out.

By the time I reached my car, I had already had enough of this so-called counseling.

I yanked my phone out of my pocket and dialed Pearson.

"Travis," he greeted smoothly. "How was session two?"

I let out a sharp laugh. "Oh, you mean Monica's ego-stroking festival? Yeah, it was great."

Pearson chuckled. "That bad, huh?"

"I don't know, James," I said, rubbing my temple. "Does it sound fair to you that Monica gets to rewrite history while I get interrupted every five minutes?"

Pearson sighed. "Let me guess--Willow Carr is biased."

"Oh, it's not a guess. It's a fact."

He hummed in thought. "So, what do you want to do?"

I sighed. "Can you get me out of these sessions?"

"I can," Pearson said, "but it'll delay the divorce."

I groaned. "Of course it will."

There was a brief pause before Pearson added, "Look, you've got two options. One, we fight this, get a neutral therapist, which could take months to agree on. Or two, you keep going to these sessions, let Monica have her little show, and get this divorce wrapped up faster."

I leaned back in my seat, staring at the ceiling. "So, basically, you're saying my suffering equals a faster divorce?"

Pearson chuckled. "Divorces take time, Travis. You either suffer now or suffer later. Pick your poison."

I sighed. "I just want this done."

"Then go to the sessions, play nice, and let Monica dig her own grave."

I exhaled, nodding. "Fine. We do it your way."

Pearson's voice softened slightly. "Hang in there, Travis. You're almost there."

"Yeah," I muttered. "I'll try."

We ended the call, and I just sat in my car for a minute.

Then, I started the engine and drove home.

Because as much as I hated it, I was stuck in this game.

And I just had to play it through.

__________________

Travis:

The next morning, I decided to spend the day with Beth and Francis.

With Traci back at school, it was just the three of us now, and honestly, I needed the distraction. Work, counseling, the divorce--it was all weighing on me.

We grabbed breakfast at our favorite diner, took a trip to the bookstore because Beth insisted she needed more reading material, and then wandered around downtown for a bit, just enjoying the rare moment of normalcy.

As we sat on a bench, eating ice cream, Francis gave me a look.

"So... how's counseling?"

I sighed, licking my spoon. "A nightmare."

Beth raised an eyebrow. "That bad?"

I nodded. "Willow Carr is as biased as they come. She treats Monica like some wounded bird and treats me like I'm the villain in her story."

Francis hummed in thought. "How's Mom?"

I shrugged. "She's... okay, I guess. I haven't really spoken to her outside of therapy."

Beth hesitated, then asked, "How are you doing?"

I ran a hand through my hair. "I'm not sure I can make it through eight more sessions."

Francis smirked. "You might have an easier time if you played nice."

I raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

Francis leaned back, grinning. "You know the saying: You catch more flies with honey than vinegar."

Beth nodded. "It's true. If she thinks she's winning, she might back off."

I let out a dry chuckle. "When did you two get so wise?"

Beth and Francis exchanged a look before smirking in unison.

Francis grinned. "We had a good role model."

I felt a warm rush of pride--until Beth added, "Uncle Thomas."

I gasped, clutching my chest dramatically. "Betrayal!"

They both burst out laughing.

And for the first time since Rick getting arrested, I laughed with them.

__________________

Post-Monica, Four Months -- Session 3

Travis:

The next counseling session had arrived, and I was back in Dr. Willow Carr's waiting room, already regretting the decision to keep playing along.

Like before, I reached for my phone, ready to mindlessly scroll until it was time to suffer through another hour of thinly veiled judgment.

But then, something caught my eye.

Sitting right on top of the neatly arranged stack of magazines was another ridiculous article.

"Scientists Confirm That Goldfish Actually Have Better Attention Spans Than the Average Human. Is Social Media to Blame?"

I snorted and grabbed it. At least I'd be entertained while I waited.

Just as I was about to start reading, the door opened.

Monica walked in.

She didn't say anything to me at first, just glanced my way and went to sit across from me.

I decided to test out Francis's advice.

"Hey, Monica," I said casually.

She paused mid-sit, clearly thrown off. "Uh... hey, Travis."

She sat down, still looking at me like I had grown a second head.

I tapped the magazine. "Did you know that goldfish have better attention spans than us?"

Monica blinked. "What?"

I held up the article. "Yeah, apparently, goldfish can focus longer than the average human these days. Science has spoken."

She gave a small chuckle. "I believe it."

I smirked. "Wish I had known that before I spent three years training Traci's childhood goldfish to do tricks."

Monica laughed.

A real, genuine laugh.

I was just about to make another joke when the office door opened.

Dr. Willow Carr stepped out, escorting out a smiling woman and a man who looked like his soul had been crushed into fine dust.

I immediately recognized the look.

Another man who had lost the "therapy battle."

Willow turned her attention to us.

She smiled.

Oh, great. She liked what she was seeing.

I resisted the urge to groan.

"Monica. Travis." Willow nodded warmly. "Come on in."

I stood, cracking my neck. Alright, let's see where this game goes.

As we entered Dr. Willow Carr's office, Monica took her usual seat, and I took mine.

For the first time, I resisted the urge to grab a pillow and put it between us. Not because I didn't want to, but because I knew Willow was watching.

And sure enough, she was.

She didn't immediately start speaking this time. Instead, she studied me, her gaze sharp and assessing, as if she were trying to figure me out.

I gave nothing away.

Finally, she folded her hands and said, "Before we begin, let's go over the session rules."

I clenched my jaw but said nothing.

Monica glanced at me, waiting for me to roll my eyes or make a sarcastic remark.

But I didn't.

Francis's voice echoed in my head: You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

Willow gave me one last look, then nodded, satisfied.

She turned to Monica. "Today's topic is intimacy and affection in the relationship."

I mentally groaned. Of course it is.

Willow gestured toward Monica. "Monica, let's start with you. How did you perceive Travis's level of intimacy and affection throughout your marriage?"

Monica let out a deep sigh as if this were so difficult for her.

I sat back, tuning out.

She spoke about how she had felt neglected, how I was too focused on work, how I was never the one to initiate affection anymore.

I zoned out, thinking about the latest PS5 game I'd been meaning to buy.

Something about open-world exploration and insane combat mechanics.

I nodded along at the right moments, playing the game.

All the while, I could feel Willow's eyes on me.

She was waiting for a reaction.

She wasn't going to get one.

By the time the session ended, I was mentally exhausted.

But I kept my face neutral, even supportive.

Monica looked at me as if expecting me to say something, react, anything.

Instead, I simply stood and walked out.

Not rushing.

Not angry.

Just done for the day.

---------------

I drove straight to the bar, shaking off the weight of another exhausting therapy session.

I had spent the last hour biting my tongue, playing along, and letting Monica rewrite history, all while Willow sat there, watching me like I was some science experiment.

I needed a break from all of it.

When I walked in, Maggie was already there, sitting at our usual table near the bar. She looked up, saw me, and smirked.

"Survived another session, I see."

I sighed dramatically as I slid into the seat across from her. "Barely. I deserve a drink."

She chuckled. "Then you've come to the right place."

A few minutes later, drinks in hand, we settled in for the evening. No stress, no pressure. Just conversation.

Maggie was easy to talk to. Unlike therapy, where every word felt like it was being picked apart, here? I could just be myself.

We caught up on work gossip, ridiculous office politics, and whatever show Maggie was currently obsessed with.

It felt like hanging out with an old friend.

At some point, the bartender walked over, cleaning a glass and giving me a knowing look.

"You know," he said, "you should take her out sometime. Maybe dancing instead of always coming here."

Maggie snorted. "Not until I take more dance lessons. I need to keep up with him first."

The bartender raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "You? Keep up with him?"

Maggie grinned and gestured toward me. "Don't let him fool you. This guy is the real deal."

I shrugged, trying to downplay it. "I just know a few steps."

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Seven state championships. That's more than 'a few steps.'"

The bartender looked at me like I had just claimed to be a secret agent.

I took a sip of my drink. "She exaggerates."

Maggie smirked but let it go.

The rest of the evening was comfortable. We talked like old friends, laughing, venting, and for the first time in a long while... I didn't think about Monica.

And that? That was worth more than I realized.

__________________

Post-Monica, Four Months -- Session 4

Travis:

I sat in the waiting room, flipping through a magazine, already bracing myself for another round of "let's pretend Travis was the problem."

As luck would have it, there was another gem in the magazine pile.

"Scientists Discover That Cows Have Best Friends. What We Can Learn from Bovine Loyalty."

I smirked. Good for them.

After a few minutes, I glanced up at the clock.

Monica wasn't here.

I frowned. She was usually early or right on time.

A thought crossed my mind--maybe she finally came to her senses and called off this ridiculous notion of reconciliation.

I snorted at the idea. Yeah, right.

The office door swung open, and a woman in her mid-50s stomped out like she was on a mission.

Trailing behind her was an older man, slightly hunched, clutching a purse like it was a live grenade.

The woman turned on him immediately. "I told you to hold it properly! You're creasing the leather!"

I bit back a laugh, making a mental note--session four, married man loses war to handbag.

Before I could enjoy the scene longer, Willow stepped out.

Her eyes met mine, and her greeting was noticeably curt.

"Travis."

I raised an eyebrow. "Should we wait for Monica?"

Willow shook her head. "Not today. I want to have a one-on-one session with you."

I sighed internally. Oh, joy.

Because nothing says 'fun' like an hour alone with my biggest fan.

I followed Dr. Willow Carr into her office, already dreading this session.

A one-on-one? With her?

Yeah, this was about to be a special kind of hell.

She sat in her usual chair, folding her hands neatly in her lap. Silent. Watching.

I took my usual seat, waiting for the inevitable preachy opening statement about trust, reconciliation, or some nonsense about healing.

The silence stretched on.

I raised an eyebrow. "So, do we start with a prayer circle, or should I just start listing my emotional sins?"

Nothing.

No smile. No forced laugh. Just cold analysis.

Then she spoke. "What's your game, Travis?"

I frowned. "Excuse me?"

She studied me. "I've noticed a change in your attitude. It's subtle, but it's there."

I shrugged. "Got some sound advice."

Her eyebrow twitched. "What advice?"

I smirked slightly. "From two people I hold near and dear."

Her gaze narrowed. "And have you decided to forgive Monica?"

My smirk vanished.

I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. "Not yet."

She tilted her head slightly. "What will it take?"

I stayed silent.

She leaned in. "When will you forgive her?"

I still didn't answer, but in my head, I had one.

Maybe when pigs fly.

Or better yet--when Rick Sullivan becomes a respected member of society.

For the rest of the session, Willow talked about forgiveness.

How it was necessary for healing.

How it was the key to moving forward.

How I needed to find a way to let go of my resentment.

Each time she made a suggestion, I fought the urge to respond with a sarcastic comment.

Maybe I'll send Monica a gift basket labeled "Congrats on Wrecking Your Family."

Or Perhaps I'll hire a skywriter to write "It's Fine" over our old house.

But I kept my mouth shut.

By the time I left her office, I had never felt so emotionally drained.

Not even divorce court could be worse than this.

Could it?

__________________

Post-Monica, Four Months -- Session 5

Travis:

I was halfway through my morning coffee when Dr. Willow Carr's office called.

The receptionist sounded as cheerful as someone working for the enemy could. "Mr. Parker, Dr. Carr wanted to let you know that your next session will be a one-on-one with Monica, so you won't need to attend."

I nearly choked on my coffee. Best news I'd heard all week.

"Thanks," I said, grinning to myself as I ended the call.

No therapy session? That meant an entire evening of uninterrupted freedom.

I had already mentally planned the night. Pizza, a new PS5 game I had been dying to try out, and maybe even a classic action movie from the 90s.

I hadn't been this excited in a while.

A few hours later, I headed into our weekly status meeting with the U. S. government.

It was funny--I never thought I'd be happy about a government meeting, but compared to an hour of Willow Carr's lectures about forgiveness?

Yeah. I'd take PowerPoint slides and budget discussions any day.

As the meeting went on, I noticed Maggie watching me.

She wasn't focused on the slides--no, she was watching me. Studying me, like I was some puzzle she was trying to figure out.

Afterward, as I packed up my laptop, she stopped me.

"You're in a suspiciously good mood," she said, arms crossed. "What's up?"

I smirked. "I don't have to go to counseling tonight."

Maggie raised an eyebrow. "Oh? So what's the plan?"

I grinned. "Pizza. PS5. A classic action movie."

Maggie chuckled, shaking her head. "Maybe you should join a gym instead of spending your free time glued to a screen."

I gasped dramatically. "Blasphemy! Why lift weights when I can lift a controller?"

She rolled her eyes but smirked. "Alright, Parker. Enjoy your lazy night."

"Oh, I will," I said with a grin.

Because for the first time in months, my evening was actually mine.

__________________

Post-Monica, Four Months -- Session 6

Travis:

I showed up late to the next therapy session. Not intentionally, but I'd lost track of time, and by the time I rushed into Dr. Willow Carr's office, she was already waiting with that disapproving stare.

"Travis," she said, arms crossed. "You're late."

I sighed and, before I could stop myself, muttered, "Sorry."

She nodded, satisfied, and I mentally kicked myself for apologizing. I do not owe this woman an apology.

I dropped into my usual seat, resisting the urge to sink too far into it.

Willow didn't waste time. "Today's session is about rebuilding trust."

Of course, it was.

I participated without sarcasm, not because I believed in any of this, but because I was running out of energy to fight it.

I let Monica talk about trust, how she wanted to rebuild what she broke.

I nodded at the right times, kept my voice even, and gave Willow nothing to scold me for.

By the end of the session, I felt... numb.

Not angry. Not sad. Just... empty.

I cursed to myself. What the hell was this therapy doing to me?

As I grabbed my things, Monica hesitated at the door.

"Travis," she said softly. "Do you want to get a drink?"

For half a second, I almost said yes.

Then I caught myself.

I forced a small, polite smile. "Raincheck. I have plans."

She nodded, looking a little disappointed. "Okay. Maybe another time."

I walked to my car, feeling unsettled.

When I got home, I fired up the PS5.

And just... sat there.

Staring at the screen, controller in hand, not even sure why I agreed to a raincheck.

I didn't want to go out with Monica.

So why the hell did I say that?

__________________

Post-Monica, Four Months -- Session 7

Travis:

I sat in the waiting room, flipping through another ridiculous magazine article to distract myself from what was coming.

"Can Owls Actually Be Trusted? A Deep Dive into Their Silent, Mysterious Ways."

I smirked. If Willow were an animal, she'd be an owl--always watching, waiting, and silently judging.

Just then, Monica walked in.

She smiled when she saw me.

I don't know why, but I smiled back.

"Hey, Travis," she said warmly.

"Hey, Monica," I replied, just as warm.

She sat down next to me, close enough that I could smell her perfume.

For the next few minutes, we talked about the article, laughing about the absurdity of untrustworthy owls.

At some point, without me even noticing, Monica rested her head on my shoulder.

It was comfortable. Familiar.

I didn't react. Didn't even register it.

Then the door to Willow's office opened.

A husband and wife stepped out, hand in hand.

The wife looked genuinely happy.

The husband? Not so much. His smile was forced, the kind of look that said I've been broken down and rebuilt into the perfect therapy husband.

Before I could dwell on it, I caught movement in my peripheral vision.

Willow was watching.

She was smiling.

And that's when it hit me.

Monica's head was on my shoulder.

I cursed internally.

Before I could correct it, Willow greeted us, her tone pleased.

"Travis. Monica." She gestured toward her office. "Come on in."

And just like that, I had walked right into the trap.

I followed Monica into Dr. Willow Carr's office, keeping my expression neutral.

I wasn't sure what bothered me more--the fact that Monica had rested her head on my shoulder earlier, or the fact that I let her.

It was a mistake.

And judging by the way Willow had smiled when she saw us, I had just given her ammunition.

As we sat down in our usual seats, I could already predict the routine.

Willow folded her hands, offering Monica a warm smile before turning to me with her usual, unreadable gaze.

"Before we begin," she started, "let's go over the session rules."

I nodded along, barely listening at this point. I could recite them by heart.

Then, she leaned forward slightly. "Today's topic is conflict resolution."

I felt a flicker of dread.

Willow continued, "We're going to discuss how, when problems arise in a marriage, partners should work through them together, rather than making impulsive decisions."

Monica nodded, folding her hands in her lap. "I agree."

I stayed silent.

Willow turned her attention to me. "Travis, how do you feel you handled the conflict in your marriage?"

I shrugged. "I handled things the best I could."

Willow gave a sympathetic smile. "Would you say that kicking Monica out was the best resolution?"

Monica sighed dramatically. "I just wish we had talked first, really talked."

I nodded, playing along, but internally?

There was a battle raging.

A small, almost rational part of me wondered, Could I have handled things differently?

Maybe.

Then there was the other side--the one that had kept me sane these past few months. The sarcastic, realist Travis.

That Travis scoffed. Handled it differently? What, invite Rick over for dinner and ask how long he's been screwing my wife?

Monica cheated.

I owed her nothing.

Yet here I was, sitting in this office, entertaining the idea that I was at fault for how I reacted.

And I hated that.

The session mercifully ended, and I walked out feeling drained, frustrated, and unsure of myself.

Monica walked beside me, a little too close, and before we reached the parking lot, she hesitated.

Then, she looked up at me.

"Travis," she said softly, "do you want to grab a drink?"

I knew I should've said no.

I knew that going would only make things more complicated.

But before I could stop myself, I sighed and said,

"Sure. Why not."

I told Monica to follow me to the bar I frequent most often.

It wasn't fancy, wasn't high-class--just comfortable. A place where I could relax, drink, and not think about my life imploding.

As we walked inside, my eyes immediately landed on Maggie.

She was sitting at her usual spot, drink in hand, chatting with the bartender.

She turned to greet me, her expression shifting slightly when she saw I wasn't alone.

Instead of her usual sarcastic smirk or playful comment, she just gave me a nod and turned back to her drink.

I saw it. That flicker of something.

And I ignored it.

Because my head was a mess.

Monica and I took a seat at a quiet corner booth.

Drinks were ordered, and before I knew it, we were talking about old times.

Trips we had taken. Inside jokes we used to have. The good moments.

For a while, I let myself sink into it.

Let myself forget about the lies, the betrayal, the therapy sessions.

It was dangerous.

An hour later, Monica glanced at the time and sighed. "I should get back to my parents' house."

She smiled at me, looking... happy. Hopeful.

Before I could react, she leaned in and kissed my cheek.

"Thank you for tonight," she whispered before heading out.

I sat there, completely numb.

The war in my head was louder than ever.

I barely noticed when Maggie sat down across from me.

She said something--I had no idea what.

I didn't respond.

Then, without warning--she slapped me.

Not hard enough to leave a mark, but definitely enough to wake me the hell up.

I blinked, rubbing my cheek. "Damn, Donaldson. Been working out?"

She crossed her arms. "You needed that."

I exhaled. "Yeah, maybe."

She studied me. "You looked like a damn zombie when I walked over."

I scoffed. "Thanks for the concern."

Then she tilted her head. "Did it have anything to do with that woman?"

I caught it.

That hint of jealousy.

I leaned back, rubbing my temple. "That woman is my ex-wife."

Maggie raised an eyebrow. "Oh."

And so, I told her everything.

I sat back in the booth, finishing off my drink while Maggie listened to everything.

I told her about therapy, about Willow's constant interruptions, about how I felt like I was walking into an ambush every session.

I told her about Monica's version of events and how I had to sit there and nod along while my side of the story got dissected.

And I told her about tonight--the drink, the reminiscing, the kiss on the cheek.

Maggie didn't interrupt, didn't roll her eyes, didn't scoff.

She just listened.

When I finished, I leaned back and let out a heavy sigh.

Maggie swirled her drink, looking at me thoughtfully. "You know why you're struggling with this, right?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh, do tell, Dr. Donaldson."

She smirked. "Willow is holding you back."

I frowned. "What?"

Maggie set her glass down and leaned forward. "She's deflecting, Travis. Every session, she makes you second-guess yourself while letting Monica do whatever the hell she wants."

I opened my mouth to argue, but she held up a hand.

"Hear me out," she said. "You're not allowed to open up. You're not allowed to talk directly to Monica in therapy--because if you did, if you actually said everything that's been building up inside you, Willow wouldn't be able to protect her."

I stilled.

Something about that... hit harder than I expected.

Maggie was right.

Every time I tried to get to the root of things, Willow intervened. She redirected, downplayed, turned my words into something else.

Monica got to share her pain while I sat there, bottling mine up.

And I had been playing along.

Maggie leaned back, crossing her arms. "You need to have your say, Travis."

I let out a slow breath, rubbing my face. "Yeah. I do."

Maggie smirked. "Glad I could help."

I sighed, rubbing my cheek where she had slapped me earlier.

"Still stings," I muttered.

She grinned. "You needed something to snap back to reality."

I chuckled. "I probably did."

But deep down, I knew something had shifted.

The next session?

Things were going to be different.

__________________

Post-Monica, Four Months -- Session 8

Travis:

I sat in Dr. Willow Carr's waiting room, flipping through yet another magazine, looking for something ridiculous to read.

And once again, the universe did not disappoint.

"Scientists Say Squirrels Are Master Strategists--Are We Underestimating Them?"

I smirked. Great. Now I have to worry about the squirrel uprising on top of everything else.

Just as I was about to dive in, the door opened.

Monica walked in.

She smiled when she saw me, and like I had been doing for the past few weeks, I smiled back.

"Hey, Travis," she said, sitting down next to me.

"Monica," I greeted warmly.

She glanced at the magazine in my hands. "What's the topic today?"

I held it up. "Apparently, squirrels are tactical geniuses, and we should fear them."

Monica let out a genuine laugh. "Well, that's reassuring."

I smirked. Enjoy this moment, Monica. Because after today, you won't want to sit next to me again.

We spent the next few minutes talking about the article, laughing about the absurdity of squirrel conspiracies.

But I knew.

This was the last time things were going to feel this easy.

Because today?

I was done playing Willow's game.

The receptionist looked up from her desk and gave the usual tight-lipped smile. "Dr. Carr is ready for you."

Monica and I stood, walking side by side into the office.

Like always, Willow was already seated, pen in hand, her expression unreadable.

We took our usual seats.

"Before we begin," Willow said smoothly, "let's go over the session rules."

I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

Same speech, same warnings, same subtle condescension masked as neutrality.

Then, she set down her pen and said, "Today's topic is communication."

Oh, this is gonna be good.

She barely finished speaking before I leaned forward.

"Actually, Willow," I said, keeping my tone even but firm, "I want to talk to Monica directly."

Willow's expression shifted. "Travis, these sessions work best when I facilitate--"

"No," I cut in, locking eyes with her. "I want to talk to her. No interruptions."

Willow opened her mouth but stopped. She saw it in my face.

I wasn't asking.

After a moment, she nodded, though I could see her reluctance.

I turned to Monica.

And let loose.

"You talk about rebuilding trust, about how we need to communicate," I started, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "But let's communicate about something real, Monica."

She shifted in her seat, already looking uneasy.

I leaned forward. "You pulled away first."

Monica's breath hitched.

I didn't stop.

"You made me feel like a stranger in my own marriage. You made me wonder if I was crazy, if I was imagining things. But I wasn't, was I?"

Willow tensed. "Travis--"

I ignored her.

"You didn't talk to me. You didn't ask for space. You didn't try to fix anything. You chose Rick."

Monica let out a soft sob, her hands clenched together in her lap.

"You chose to sleep with him."

Willow sat up straighter. "Travis, this isn't constructive--"

I turned to her, finally acknowledging her presence.

"Not constructive for who? You?" I scoffed. "Or is this not part of the script?"

Willow's face twitched.

Monica wiped at her eyes, looking utterly broken.

Good.

For the first time, she had to sit with what she did without anyone cushioning the blow.

Willow cleared her throat. "I think we should end here today."

I smirked, standing up. "Wow, really? I thought we were communicating."

Willow's jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

I looked at Monica one last time.

Then, for the first time since these sessions started, I walked out feeling good.

__________________

Post-Monica, Four Months -- Session 9

Travis:

I sat in Dr. Willow Carr's waiting room, flipping through yet another ridiculous magazine article.

"Are Pigeons Secretly Smarter Than We Think? A Study Suggests They Recognize Themselves in Mirrors."

I smirked. Great. Now I have to worry about self-aware pigeons plotting world domination.

I glanced at the clock. Monica wasn't here.

I frowned. She was always early or right on time.

A sinking feeling settled in my gut. Something was off.

I leaned over the reception desk. "Hey, did Monica cancel today's session?"

The receptionist shook her head. "Nope."

Before I could respond, the office door slammed open.

A man stormed out, flipping off Willow's office door before muttering curses under his breath and heading straight for the elevator.

A moment later, a sobbing woman ran out.

"David!" she cried, chasing after him. "Please, baby, I'm sorry! Let's talk!"

She reached the elevator just as the doors closed in her face.

I watched the whole thing unfold, amused but not surprised.

Another poor soul caught in the Willow Carr Marriage Experience.

A few seconds later, Willow herself emerged.

She looked annoyed, but the moment her eyes landed on me, her face hardened even more.

"Travis," she greeted curtly.

Then she motioned toward her office.

I stood, sighing to myself.

Oh yeah. Today was gonna be fun.

I walked into Dr. Willow Carr's office, already exhausted before the session even started.

She looked tense, irritated--probably still stewing over whatever just went down with her last couple.

I didn't care.

I slumped onto the couch, stretching my legs out, my exhaustion only half-pretend.

We sat in silence.

I waited for her to start with her usual "Travis, before we begin, let's go over the rules" speech.

But she just stared at me.

Her lips were pressed into a tight line, her fingers laced together, knuckles white.

I raised an eyebrow. "So, what's today's topic?"

Willow's eyes narrowed.

Then she exploded.

"You know what, Travis? I am so sick of your sarcasm!"

I blinked. Wow. Okay.

"You sit here," she continued, "acting like you're above all of this! Like this is some game, some joke that you just have to endure long enough to get what you want!"

She leaned forward, eyes blazing. "Do you even hear yourself? Ever? Or are you so wrapped up in your own anger that you can't even see the damage you've done?"

I tilted my head. "To whom? Monica? Because I think--"

She cut me off. "To yourself, Travis! To your children, to everyone who still cares about you! But no--you just sit there, making sarcastic comments, rolling your eyes, pretending you don't feel anything!"

I sat up a little, something clicking into place.

Oh. There it is.

She wasn't just mad at me.

She was projecting.

I folded my arms. "Sounds personal, Willow. Everything okay at home?"

Willow froze.

Her breath hitched--for just a second--but I caught it.

She blinked.

I leaned forward, pressing the moment. "That husband of yours giving you trouble? That guy who just stormed out of here?" I gestured toward the door. "Or was it the one before him?"

Willow's face paled.

Bingo.

I smiled coldly. "Let me guess--you see every husband who walks through these doors as him, don't you?"

Willow opened her mouth--then closed it.

She was stunned into silence.

First time for everything.

I stood, brushing imaginary dust off my pants. "I'm guessing this session is over."

Willow said nothing.

I walked out, feeling lighter than I had in months.

Because finally?

I wasn't the one losing control.

__________________

Post-Monica, Five Months

Travis:

My phone rang, and when I saw James Pearson's name, I braced myself. Lawyer calls were rarely good news.

"Tell me you've got something exciting for me, James," I answered.

"Well," Pearson said, his tone amused, "Dr. Willow Carr has officially canceled the rest of your counseling sessions."

I blinked. Then smirked. "What? She didn't want to continue her one-woman crusade against husbands?"

Pearson chuckled. "Seems not. Whatever happened in that last session, she wants nothing to do with you anymore."

"I'll send her a thank-you card," I deadpanned.

Pearson sighed, still entertained but getting to business. "Now, onto the final step--the divorce hearing."

I exhaled, letting that sink in.

This was it.

The final battle.

And for the first time in months, I could actually see the finish line.

__________________

Three Weeks Before the Divorce Hearing

Travis:

I had just settled in for a perfectly quiet evening--beer in one hand, PS5 controller in the other, ready to absolutely obliterate some virtual enemies--when the doorbell rang. I groaned, already annoyed. It was too late for deliveries, too early for home invasions, so I figured it was either a neighbor or some other new form of suffering.

Turns out, it was the latter.

Standing on my damn doorstep, looking like she had just walked out of a Hallmark redemption arc, was Monica.

I blinked. "Huh. You're not the pizza I didn't order."

She ignored the joke and gave me a small, rehearsed-looking smile. "Travis."

I sighed. "Monica, it's late. Unless you're here to confess to another terrible decision, I don't see why--"

"Can I come in?" she asked quickly, her voice soft, hopeful.

I gave her a long, deadpan stare. "Not unless you're bringing that pizza I still didn't order."

She let out a shaky breath. "Please, Travis. Just five minutes."

I considered my options.

Option A: Shut the door in her face, finish my game, and never think about this moment again.

Option B: Let her in, listen to whatever nonsense she had planned, and regret my choices immediately.

Because I am an idiot, I went with Option B.

"Fine," I muttered. "But if this turns into a 'take me back' speech, I'm gonna start charging you for my time."

She stepped inside, looking around like she expected things to feel the same. But nothing about this house was hers anymore.

I crossed my arms. "Alright. You got five minutes. Impress me."

She took a deep breath, like she was preparing for a TED Talk. "Travis... I just... I need you to know how sorry I am."

I sighed. "Oh, wow, you're sorry? Well, that changes everything. Let me go grab the 'Marriage Un-Destroyer™' from the back and we can just--"

"Travis."

I smirked. "Sorry, sorry. Continue your tragic monologue."

She swallowed. "I miss you. I miss our family. And I would give anything--anything--to undo what I did."

I stared at her for a moment, then slowly shook my head. "You know what I miss, Monica? Having a wife who wasn't sneaking off to the gym for reasons that had nothing to do with fitness."

She flinched. "I was... I was lost."

I snorted. "Lost? Monica, Google Maps can't even fix what you did."

She wiped at her eyes. "Do you think you could ever--ever--forgive me?"

I tilted my head, pretending to think. "Hmmm... let's see. Could I forgive my wife for cheating on me with the human embodiment of a protein shake?"

Monica sniffled.

"No."

She blinked. "That's it? Just... no?"

I shrugged. "Would you prefer a PowerPoint presentation?"

She looked genuinely crushed, like she thought showing up and looking sad would magically reverse reality.

"I just had to try," she whispered.

I sighed and gestured to the door. "And now you can try walking out."

She hesitated, like she wanted to say more. Then, realizing this was actually the end, she gave me one last look--regretful, defeated, and about six months too late.

Then, she walked out.

I closed the door, locked it, and let out a deep breath.

Then I walked back to my couch, picked up my controller, and muttered, "Well, that was a colossal waste of five minutes."

And with that, I went back to doing something productive.

Like winning a war in a video game.

__________________

Two Weeks Before the Divorce Hearing

Travis:

Francis had always been the level-headed one, the kid who saw all sides, who tried to find common ground where the rest of us just wanted to pick a side and stay there. So when he texted me saying he wanted to have a sit-down--with me, Monica, Beth, and Traci all in the same room--I already knew where this was going.

I sighed, staring at the message, debating how much energy I had left for this nonsense. Then, another message popped up.

"Dad, just hear me out. We don't have to forgive her. I just think we should at least try to talk before the hearing."

I ran a hand down my face. This kid. He always meant well, but I wasn't sure he understood just how done Beth and Traci were with their mother.

Still, against my better judgment, I agreed. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or maybe I just wanted Francis to finally see what I already knew--Monica wasn't the victim here.

We met at a neutral place, a restaurant downtown. Public enough that no one would cause a scene, but quiet enough that we could actually talk. I got there first, sat down, and ordered a coffee. Beth and Traci arrived next, and both of them looked as unenthusiastic as I felt.

"You know this is a waste of time, right?" Traci muttered, crossing her arms as she sat down.

Beth nodded. "Yeah, I don't even know why we're here."

"Because Francis asked," I said, taking a sip of my coffee. "And because we want him to see for himself that this is pointless."

Before either of them could respond, Francis walked in, followed by Monica.

She looked nervous, maybe even hopeful. She sat down across from me, eyes flicking toward Traci and Beth, who both immediately looked away.

"Thank you all for coming," Francis said, already slipping into his mediator voice. "I just... I know things have been bad, but before we go into that courtroom, I think we should at least try to clear the air."

Monica seized the moment. "I agree," she said quickly, looking between them. "I--I know I've made mistakes. I know I hurt all of you." Her eyes lingered on Beth and Traci. "But I don't want this to be the end. You're my children, and I--"

"You don't get to say that," Traci cut in, her voice sharp as a knife. "You don't get to call us your children when you threw us away the second you cheated."

Monica flinched. "Traci--"

"No." Traci's hands clenched into fists. "You want to sit here and pretend like you care? Like you've been some helpless victim in all this? You weren't. You made a choice. And now, you want us to just pretend none of it happened?"

Beth, who had been quiet up until now, finally spoke. "Why now?" she asked, voice small but firm. "Why do you suddenly care so much now?"

Monica's mouth opened, but no words came out.

"Because you're losing everything," I said, my voice even. "That's why."

She turned to me, eyes welling up. "Travis, please--"

"No." I shook my head. "This is exactly why this meeting is a waste of time." I gestured to Beth and Traci. "They're not going to forgive you just because you suddenly decided you're ready to be their mom again. You don't get to pick and choose when you care."

Francis sighed. "Come on, Dad, can't we at least--"

"No, Francis, we can't." Traci stood up. "You wanted a conversation? Well, here's my part--I'm done with her." She looked down at Monica, cold and final. "And if you had any self-respect, you'd stop pretending this is fixable."

Beth nodded, standing as well. "I'm done, too."

I pushed back my chair and stood with them.

Francis looked between us, defeated. "So that's it?"

"That's it," Traci said, grabbing her coat. "Let's go."

Beth followed, and I gave Francis a small pat on the shoulder. "I know you meant well, son. But this? This was never going to work."

Monica sat there, silent, staring at the table.

Francis sighed. "I just... I don't know. I thought maybe--"

"You're a good kid," I said. "But you need to stop expecting good things from bad people."

Then, without another word, I walked out the door, leaving Monica and Francis behind.

__________________

One Week Before the Divorce Hearing

Travis:

Sitting in my lawyer's office, I mentally braced myself for what was about to be an incredibly tedious conversation about the divorce hearing. I had survived months of psychological warfare, endured therapy with a biased referee, and had somehow not committed a crime despite Monica pushing every legal and emotional boundary imaginable. But now, this was it--the final stretch.

"So," my lawyer, a no-nonsense guy named James Pearson, began, flipping through a ridiculously thick file, "the hearing is in a week. We need to go over what to expect."

I sighed. "Let me guess. Monica is going to walk in looking tragically fragile, claim she was manipulated into the original settlement, and try to squeeze me for every dime possible?"

James gave me a pointed look. "Pretty much."

I groaned, leaning back in my chair. "Fantastic. Do I get bonus points if she fake-cries? Or do I just automatically lose the round?"

James smirked. "You don't lose unless you engage in the theatrics. Stick to the facts. That's what the judge will care about."

I nodded. "Alright, so no rolling my eyes when she starts monologuing about how hard it's been for her?"

"Correct."

"And if she starts quoting poetry about lost love?"

James blinked. "Is that... likely?"

I scoffed. "You don't know Monica. I'd put money on a dramatic speech about how I abandoned her, followed by a teary plea for reconciliation."

James flipped to another page in his notes. "Well, she's also arguing that she was 'emotionally coerced' into the original agreement and deserves spousal support."

I nearly choked on my coffee. "I'm sorry, she what?"

"Yeah." James exhaled. "She's claiming that she wasn't in a 'stable emotional state' when she agreed to no spousal support."

I stared at him. "Was this before or after she was emotionally stable enough to cheat on me? Because I feel like that's an important timeline to clarify."

James chuckled. "Stick with that tone in court, and we'll be fine."

I ran a hand through my hair, already exhausted by the idea of having to listen to Monica argue her way into more of my money.

"Alright," I sighed. "What else should I expect?"

James scanned his notes. "She might bring up your 'hostile attitude' in therapy. Willow will likely have a statement about how you weren't 'willing to engage in reconciliation.'"

I barked out a laugh. "Oh, you mean the therapy where Willow tried to Jedi-mind-trick me into believing my divorce was my fault?" I shook my head. "Great. I can't wait for that testimony."

James shrugged. "It won't hold weight unless Monica can prove you were outright refusing to participate."

"James, I walked out of therapy because Willow was projecting her own marriage issues onto me. If anything, I should be getting emotional damages."

James sighed, clearly trying not to laugh. "Unfortunately, the court isn't going to compensate you for enduring bad therapy."

I groaned. "So unfair. Can we at least argue that she should pay me back for the mental toll of those sessions?"

"Focus, Travis."

I waved my hand. "Fine, fine. What else?"

James flipped one last page. "We'll go over the financials, child custody agreements--though Beth is old enough to make her own decision--and finalize asset division. Just stick to the facts, avoid sarcastic outbursts, and let me handle any nonsense she tries to pull."

I nodded, sighing. "Alright. So basically, shut up, don't roll my eyes, and don't call out her BS too obviously."

"Exactly."

I stood up, shaking his hand. "I feel like I should get a trophy or something when this is all over."

James smirked. "You'll get your freedom."

I exhaled dramatically. "Yeah, but can I also get a cake?"

James chuckled. "I'll see what I can do."

I walked out of his office, mentally preparing myself.

One more week. Then it would finally be over.

__________________

One Day Before the Divorce Hearing

Travis:

I swirled my drink, watching the ice melt into what I could only assume was liquid wisdom. Tomorrow was the big day--the final battle, the moment where I would either walk away a free man or financially wrecked beyond recognition. There was only one place I wanted to be tonight, and Maggie had already beaten me there, sitting at our usual table, drink in hand, watching me like she could see the storm brewing in my head.

"So," she said, raising an eyebrow as I sat down. "You ready?"

I let out a breath. "For court? Absolutely not. For drinks until I temporarily forget about court? One hundred percent."

Maggie smirked and clinked her glass against mine. "That's the spirit."

I took a sip and sighed. "You know, when I got married, I never pictured my life coming down to a courtroom and a judge deciding whether or not I still owed Monica something."

Maggie gave me a knowing look. "You're still stuck on that, huh?"

I shrugged. "Not stuck. Just... thinking. I spent so much time these last few months being angry, sarcastic, exhausted. But now that it's almost over, I just feel... weirdly empty."

She nodded. "Because this was your fight. You've spent months tearing through this mess, throwing punches, dodging Monica's insanity, surviving therapy sessions designed to break you. And now? Now there's nothing left to fight."

I smirked. "That's pretty deep for a woman who once slapped me in the face to bring me back to reality."

Maggie grinned. "Hey, sometimes tough love requires a little violence."

I chuckled, but her words stuck with me. She was right. I had defined my life around surviving this divorce, making it out with my sanity intact. Now that it was here, I didn't know what came next.

Maggie must've seen something in my expression because she leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. "So, what are you gonna do once this is over?"

I tilted my head. "You mean after I collapse in bed for a week straight and reconsider every life choice that led me here?"

She smirked. "Yeah, after that."

I sighed. "I don't know. I've spent so long looking backward, trying to rewrite the past in my head, wondering where I screwed up. Maybe it's time I actually look forward."

Maggie lifted her glass. "To the future, then."

I clinked mine against hers, letting out a small smile. "To not looking back."

And for the first time in a long time, I actually meant it.

__________________

Divorce Hearing Day -- The Courtroom War

Travis:

I had always imagined my final battle with Monica would be some dramatic, movie-worthy showdown, complete with lightning, thunder, and maybe a choir singing in the background. Instead, it was just me, my lawyer, a stiff suit I hated, and an old judge who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here.

"All rise," the bailiff announced as the judge entered.

I stood, adjusting my tie like it was a noose. Across from me, Monica was already playing the part of the tragic ex-wife, sitting with her hands neatly folded, looking delicate and wounded, like she was about to recite a Shakespearean monologue about betrayal.

"Please be seated," the judge said, already sounding bored with life.

My lawyer, James, leaned over. "Remember, stick to the facts, no sarcasm, no rolling your eyes, and for the love of God, don't get baited."

I nodded. "Cool, cool. What about deep, dramatic sighs?"

James exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just... try to behave."

The judge cleared his throat and turned to Monica's lawyer, a guy who looked like he practiced smarmy smiles in the mirror every morning. "Counselor, you may proceed."

Monica's lawyer stood, buttoning his overly expensive suit. "Your Honor, before we begin, I'd like to submit evidence into the record--Dr. Willow Carr's official report from the therapy sessions between my client and Mr. Parker."

I froze.

Oh. Oh, you have got to be kidding me.

James muttered, "Unbelievable," under his breath but kept a poker face as Monica's lawyer handed a thick stack of papers to the judge.

The judge flipped through it, adjusting his glasses. "Dr. Carr is a licensed therapist, correct?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Monica's lawyer said. "And her findings are very telling."

I already knew what that report said.

It painted me as bitter, combative, emotionally unwilling to work on reconciliation. Because, you know, I didn't sit there and cry on cue like Monica did.

The judge nodded slowly. "Alright. Proceed with your witness."

Monica's lawyer turned toward her. "Mrs. Parker, can you tell us why you felt reconciliation was possible?"

Monica sniffled for effect. "Because I still love him," she said softly.

I almost choked on my own rage.

She continued, perfectly rehearsed. "I know I made mistakes. I deeply regret them. But I wanted to do the therapy because I believed that, deep down, Travis still loved me too."

Monica's lawyer nodded. "And how did Mr. Parker behave during therapy?"

She sighed like I had personally wounded her soul. "Distant. Sarcastic. Resentful." She looked up at the judge with watery eyes. "I was trying to save our marriage, but he... he just wouldn't let go of his anger."

I clenched my fists under the table. Unbelievable.

Monica's lawyer nodded, flipping through Willow's report like it was gospel. "According to Dr. Carr, Mr. Parker showed clear hostility in sessions, refusing to engage in meaningful communication. He often used sarcasm and avoidance tactics instead of dealing with his emotions."

I nudged James. "That's not sarcasm and avoidance. That's me coping."

James whispered back, "Yeah, judges love hearing about 'coping through sarcasm.' Just... shut up for now."

Monica continued her performance. "I wanted to rebuild trust. I wanted us to find a way back to each other. But Travis... he shut me out completely."

I stared at her, completely floored. This woman had rewritten history so thoroughly I half-expected her to claim I had an affair with Rick instead.

Monica's lawyer sighed dramatically, turning back to her. "Mrs. Parker, in your opinion, is your husband an angry man?"

She nodded without hesitation. "Yes. He's very angry."

I smirked before I could stop myself.

Monica's lawyer turned to the judge. "Your Honor, based on Dr. Carr's professional assessment and Mrs. Parker's testimony, we believe that Mr. Parker's hostility during therapy is clear evidence that he was emotionally unwilling to negotiate fairly in this divorce. We request that the original settlement be reconsidered, and spousal support be granted to my client."

James sighed, rubbing his temple.

I leaned over. "Can I roll my eyes now?"

James straightened his tie, looking back at me with a slow grin.

"No, but you can watch me tear this apart."

He stood up.

__________________

The Courtroom War: Cross-Examining Monica

Travis:

I leaned back in my chair, watching as James stood up, adjusting his tie with the kind of calm, lethal precision that told me he had been waiting for this moment.

"Mrs. Parker," he began, his voice even, professional, but with just enough of a bite to let everyone know he was about to rip her testimony apart like a bear on a picnic basket.

Monica shifted in her seat, trying to maintain her fragile, wounded persona.

James took a casual step forward. "Earlier, you stated that you believed reconciliation was possible. Is that correct?"

She nodded. "Yes."

James tilted his head. "And yet, in Dr. Carr's very thorough report, nowhere does it say that you took any responsibility for your actions. Would you like to explain that?"

Monica blinked. "I--I took responsibility."

James raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Because what I read says you repeatedly reframed your actions as mistakes, not choices. Which is interesting, considering you didn't 'accidentally' have an affair, did you?"

Monica swallowed. "It was... a lapse in judgment."

James smiled. It was not a friendly smile. "Right. A lapse in judgment. Just a casual oopsie-daisy."

I smirked.

James continued, flipping through his very organized, very dangerous-looking file. "Let's talk about your affair with Mr. Richard Sullivan--or as we all lovingly know him, 'Big Rick.'"

Monica's face flushed. "That's... not relevant."

James gave a mock-confused look. "Oh, but I think it is. You see, Mrs. Parker, you've spent the last hour painting my client as some emotionally unavailable monster. But I'm curious--how does one expect to 'find a way back to their husband' when they're having a full-blown affair with the next-door neighbor?"

Monica shifted in her seat. "I was... unhappy."

James nodded. "And instead of communicating that unhappiness, instead of seeking therapy before your affair, instead of, I don't know, literally any other choice, you decided the best way to deal with it was to commit adultery."

Monica's lawyer objected. "Argumentative."

The judge waved a hand. "Overruled. I'd like to hear the answer."

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing.

Monica looked down, pretending to be fragile. "I wasn't thinking clearly."

James smirked. "Ah. So, you're saying your ability to think only became clear after you got caught?"

I coughed into my hand. That was beautiful.

Monica's jaw clenched. "That's not fair."

James continued. "Do you believe my client deserves to be punished financially because you 'weren't thinking clearly'?"

Monica sat up, regaining her self-righteous energy. "I think I deserve some level of compensation for the life I helped build."

James nodded. "Interesting. You say you helped build this life, yet my client--and I have the bank statements to prove it--was the primary financial provider in the household."

Monica pursed her lips. "I contributed."

James held up a folder. "Mrs. Parker, can you tell the court how many years you contributed financially to the household before deciding to quit your job?"

Monica opened her mouth, then closed it.

James tilted his head. "Would you like me to say it for you?"

Monica looked away. "Two years."

James smiled. "Two. And yet you believe that entitles you to lifelong financial support?"

Monica sputtered. "I was the mother of his children!"

James nodded. "And Mr. Parker was the father of those same children. Should he get paid for not cheating?"

Monica's lawyer objected. "Badgering the witness."

The judge sighed, rubbing his temple. "Sustained. Move it along, Mr. Pearson."

James nodded. "Gladly." He closed his file and turned to the judge. "No further questions, Your Honor."

Monica let out a visible exhale, like she had barely survived.

I leaned toward James, grinning. "That was a thing of beauty."

James smirked. "We're not done yet."

The judge looked at me. "Mr. Parker, please approach the stand."

I stood up, adjusting my tie, and walked to the witness stand.

Monica looked nervous.

She should be.

__________________

The Courtroom War: Travis Testifies

Travis:

I adjusted my tie as I sat down at the witness stand, mentally preparing myself for whatever legal circus was about to unfold. I had already survived therapy, endless lawyer meetings, and Monica's attempts at rewriting history, so really, how bad could this be?

Spoiler alert: Very.

James stood up, straightening his suit like he was about to deliver a closing argument in a murder trial. "Mr. Parker," he began, "let's talk about your experience with marital counseling."

I sighed dramatically. "Oh, do we have to?"

James smirked. "Afraid so." He turned toward the judge. "Your Honor, Mrs. Parker has submitted a report from Dr. Willow Carr, suggesting that my client was emotionally unwilling to work toward reconciliation."

I snorted. "Understatement of the century."

The judge shot me a look. James held back a smirk and continued. "Mr. Parker, what was your experience with these therapy sessions?"

I leaned forward. "Imagine being trapped in a gaslighting seminar, but the only person in attendance was me."

There was a pause as the judge exhaled through his nose, clearly regretting his life choices.

James nodded. "Can you elaborate?"

"Oh, absolutely." I gestured toward Monica, who was doing her best impression of a sad Victorian widow. "I walked into these sessions thinking, you know, maybe we'd have real discussions. Maybe we'd unpack our issues. Instead, I got an hour-long performance every week about how 'she still loved me' and 'this didn't have to happen.'"

James nodded. "And how did Dr. Carr react?"

I shrugged. "Oh, she was very supportive. By which I mean she sided with Monica on everything and treated me like I was some angry caveman incapable of self-reflection."

James walked over to the judge's bench, holding up a thick stack of papers. "Your Honor, this is Dr. Carr's report. I'd like to go through a few statements."

The judge sighed. "Proceed."

James flipped through the report, reading aloud. "Mr. Parker displayed consistent sarcasm, emotional detachment, and an unwillingness to engage in reconciliation. His dismissive attitude created an unsafe emotional space for Mrs. Parker."

James turned to me. "Mr. Parker, do you recall displaying sarcasm?"

I grinned. "Oh, absolutely. But in my defense, it was self-defense."

A few people in the gallery chuckled.

The judge didn't.

James smirked but kept his professional tone. "And why did you feel the need to use sarcasm?"

I deadpanned. "Because if I hadn't, I would've started throwing furniture."

Monica's lawyer immediately stood up. "Objection!"

James held up his hands. "Joke, joke." He turned back to me. "Mr. Parker, can you explain what you mean?"

I sighed. "What I mean is, these sessions were a setup. Willow wasn't neutral. She had already decided I was the villain before we even spoke."

James nodded. "How do you know that?"

I smirked. "Because she basically told me."

Monica shifted uncomfortably.

James raised an eyebrow. "Elaborate."

"Oh, gladly." I turned to the judge. "Your Honor, my therapist was projecting her own failed marriage onto me."

Monica's lawyer stood up again. "Objection! Speculation."

James countered. "Your Honor, if I may, Dr. Carr admitted to this in session."

The judge turned to me. "Explain."

I grinned. "Oh, it was a fun moment. Willow lost her cool and said I was just like her husband."

The judge actually looked mildly interested. "And what was her tone?"

"Oh, not flattering, I assure you." I leaned back. "That's when it hit me--she wasn't actually trying to help. She was punishing me. And probably every other guy who walked into her office."

James flipped another page. "Yet, Dr. Carr's report never mentions this revelation."

I scoffed. "Oh, what a shock."

James turned to the judge. "Your Honor, I submit that Dr. Carr's testimony and findings are biased, incomplete, and irrelevant to this case."

Monica's lawyer immediately stood up. "Your Honor, this is a distraction. The fact remains that Mr. Parker was hostile, uncooperative, and showed no emotional effort toward reconciliation."

James looked at me. "Mr. Parker, do you feel you were given a fair chance in therapy?"

I laughed. Loudly.

Then I turned to the judge. "Your Honor, I would have had a fairer chance getting therapy from a Magic 8-Ball."

The courtroom chuckled again, and even the judge hid a smirk.

James sat down, satisfied. "No further questions."

Monica's lawyer stood up, straightened his tie, and walked toward me.

"Mr. Parker," he said smoothly, "let's talk about your anger issues."

I sighed internally.

Here we go.

__________________

The Courtroom War: Travis Cross-Examined

Travis:

Monica's lawyer stood up, straightened his overpriced suit, and adjusted his tie with the kind of smugness that told me he thought he was about to obliterate me.

"Mr. Parker," he began, his voice oily smooth, "we've heard a lot today about your experiences in therapy. But let's shift focus, shall we? Let's talk about your temperament."

I sighed dramatically. "Oh, absolutely. Let's."

His lips twitched, like he wanted to smile but also stab me. "Would you consider yourself an angry person?"

I tilted my head. "Define angry. If you mean, 'a normal human being who gets upset when his wife cheats on him with a man who refers to himself in the third person,' then yes."

There was a snicker from someone in the gallery. The judge shot a warning look.

Monica's lawyer cleared his throat. "Your Honor, I'd like to remind the witness that this is a serious proceeding."

I smirked. "Oh, believe me, I take this very seriously. If I didn't, I would've set up a puppet show to reenact what actually happened in therapy."

The judge rubbed his temples.

"Mr. Parker," Monica's lawyer continued, clearly trying to regain control, "Dr. Carr's report states that you were sarcastic, dismissive, and unwilling to communicate. Would you say that's an accurate description?"

I pretended to think. "Hmm. I don't know. I was pretty communicative about how ridiculous the sessions were. And as for sarcasm, well..." I shrugged. "I prefer to think of it as 'creative honesty.'"

His jaw tightened. "Would you agree that your hostility in therapy suggests a pattern of behavior that made your marriage difficult?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Wait, let me get this straight--you're saying my bad attitude in a post-affair therapy session is somehow proof that my marriage was already doomed?"

He smiled like he had me cornered. "You seem very comfortable placing all the blame on Mrs. Parker. Do you truly believe you had no role in the breakdown of your marriage?"

I let out a slow breath, leaned forward slightly, and met his gaze. "You know, I've spent months thinking about that. What could I have done differently? Could I have been more attentive? Communicated better? And the answer is... maybe. But here's what I know for sure--none of that would have stopped her from cheating."

Monica shifted uncomfortably.

Monica's lawyer, clearly annoyed, flipped through his notes. "Let's talk about your children. Beth, specifically. You were awarded temporary custody during the proceedings. However, Mrs. Parker has expressed a strong desire to share custody."

I nodded. "Yeah, Beth has also expressed a strong desire to keep her mother far, far away. So, you know, conflicting interests."

His smile was tight. "So you admit that you've actively influenced your daughter's opinion on her mother?"

I let out a mock gasp. "Oh no, you caught me! I've been secretly running a smear campaign, handing out anti-Monica flyers at the PTA meetings." I folded my arms. "Beth's 16. She has eyes, ears, and a brain. She watched all of this unfold just like I did."

Monica's lawyer glanced at her, probably hoping for some cue to keep pushing. Monica looked at her lap.

Smart move.

"Your Honor," he said instead, turning back to the judge, "given that custody disputes often involve the child's wishes, I would request that we allow Beth Parker to speak for herself."

I felt my stomach tighten slightly. Beth was tough, but I hated putting her in this position.

The judge adjusted his glasses and looked at me. "Mr. Parker, do you have any objections?"

I exhaled and shook my head.

And just like that, Beth was about to take the stand.

__________________

The Courtroom War: Beth Takes the Stand

Travis:

I had been through months of nonsense--manipulative therapy, legal acrobatics, and enough emotional whiplash to qualify for a lawsuit--but nothing made my stomach tighten quite like watching my daughter walk up to the witness stand.

Beth was tough, sharp, and too smart for her age, but she was still sixteen. I hated that she had to do this.

She sat down, folding her hands in her lap, and met the judge's gaze with a steady, unflinching stare. No sarcasm. No act. Just Beth, ready to say her piece.

The judge gave her a small nod. "Miss Parker, thank you for being here today. I just want to ask you some questions regarding your living situation and relationship with your parents. Do you understand?"

Beth nodded. "Yes, sir."

Monica's lawyer stood, trying for a warm, understanding tone. "Beth, I know this is difficult for you. Can you tell us about your relationship with your mother?"

Beth exhaled through her nose. "Before or after she cheated?"

Monica stiffened. The lawyer's jaw twitched, but he kept his voice level. "Let's start with before."

Beth shifted slightly in her chair. "She was my mom. She drove me to school, made sure I did my homework, told me to eat vegetables. We weren't best friends or anything, but... she was there."

Monica looked hopeful. Like maybe this wasn't going to be as bad as she thought.

Her lawyer smiled. "And after?"

Beth's face hardened. "After, everything changed." She turned slightly in Monica's direction but didn't look at her. "She was the one person who was supposed to be on our side. But she lied. She threw away our family like it didn't matter." Her voice wavered, just for a second. "And then she wanted us to pretend everything was fine."

Monica's eyes glistened. "Beth, that's not fair--"

Beth's head snapped toward her. "Not fair?" She let out a short, bitter laugh. "Mom, I was fourteen. You didn't just cheat on Dad. You cheated on all of us."

A heavy silence filled the courtroom. Even Monica's lawyer hesitated before continuing. "Beth, I understand you're hurt, but surely you miss your mother?"

Beth swallowed, looking down at her hands. "I miss the mom I thought I had." She looked back up, and this time, her voice didn't waver. "Not the one who made me feel like I wasn't enough."

Monica flinched as if Beth had slapped her.

The lawyer cleared his throat. "Beth, do you think cutting your mother out of your life completely is a healthy decision?"

Beth's expression hardened. "Was cheating on my dad a healthy decision?"

A sharp intake of breath echoed from somewhere in the gallery. The lawyer quickly looked at the judge, hoping for an objection, but the judge just sighed and motioned for him to continue.

"Beth," he tried again, "do you think there's any path forward for you and your mother?"

Beth exhaled slowly. "Ask me again when she stops pretending this isn't her fault."

The lawyer had nothing left. He turned back to the judge. "No further questions."

Beth stepped down and walked back to the table, sitting next to me without looking at Monica.

I leaned over, whispering, "You okay?"

She nodded, but she didn't smile. "Yeah."

__________________

The Courtroom War: The Judge's Ruling

Travis:

The courtroom was silent. You could hear a pin drop--or in my case, the barely-contained joy vibrating off my soul. The judge sat back in his chair, hands folded, looking entirely exhausted from the circus he had just presided over.

He cleared his throat, glancing between me, Monica, and the room full of people who had just witnessed Beth verbally body-slam her mother.

"I've heard enough," he finally said.

Oh, thank God.

The judge adjusted his glasses and turned to Monica's lawyer. "Counselor, after reviewing the evidence, the testimonies, and frankly, the absurdity of what I just sat through, I see no reason to modify the original divorce settlement."

I almost fist-pumped in open court.

Monica, on the other hand, looked like she had just been personally victimized by reality.

The judge continued, flipping through his notes. "It is clear to me that Mrs. Parker had ample opportunity to negotiate her terms prior to this hearing, and yet she chose not to. The argument that she was 'emotionally coerced' into signing the original settlement holds no merit."

Monica's lawyer shifted uncomfortably but said nothing.

I, however, couldn't resist. I leaned over to James and whispered, "Do I send flowers or just a thank-you card to the judge's chambers?"

James smirked. "Just shut up and let this play out."

The judge kept going. "Furthermore, testimony--especially that of Miss Parker--has made it clear that there is no reasonable expectation of a shared custody arrangement."

Beth casually scrolled on her phone, completely unbothered. I'm pretty sure she was texting Traci updates in real time.

The judge sighed deeply, rubbing his temple like he was seconds away from early retirement. "Mrs. Parker, while I understand your frustration with the terms, you made choices, and those choices have consequences. I see no legal grounds to grant any additional spousal support or revised custody agreements."

Monica's jaw clenched, her fingers gripping the table like she was physically restraining herself from throwing something.

I sat there, hands folded neatly, looking like the picture of inner peace.

The judge glanced at both sides. "Do either party have any final remarks before I close proceedings?"

James gently nudged me under the table, which I knew meant 'Don't say anything stupid, Travis.'

So instead of going with my original idea of pulling out an airhorn to celebrate, I just shook my head.

"No, Your Honor," James said smoothly.

Monica's lawyer looked at her, probably hoping for a reasonable response. Big mistake.

Monica stood abruptly. "This isn't fair!" she blurted out, her voice on the edge of a full-blown tantrum.

The judge raised an eyebrow. "Mrs. Parker--"

"He gets to walk away with everything, and I get nothing?" she continued, her voice shrill enough to shatter glass.

I muttered under my breath, "You get to walk away with Big Rick. That's something."

James pinched his nose, probably regretting every life decision that led him to representing me.

The judge's patience evaporated. "Mrs. Parker, sit down. Now."

Monica huffed loudly, throwing herself into her chair like a teenager whose mom just said she couldn't go to the mall.

The judge let out one final exhausted sigh. "In conclusion, the original divorce agreement remains in place. This case is now closed."

The gavel hit the desk. Boom. Done. Over.

I let out a slow exhale, then turned to James. "So, this is what victory tastes like?"

He chuckled. "Yes. And it tastes expensive."

I smirked. "Worth every penny."

As we stood, Beth leaned over. "Dad, can we stop for ice cream on the way home? You know, to celebrate."

I grinned. "Damn right we can."

Monica stormed past me, muttering curses under her breath. I gave her a polite nod. "Hey, good game."

She flipped me off.

James sighed. "Let's go before you say something that gets you sued."

And just like that, I walked out of the courtroom, a free man.

__________________

Travis:

The morning after the final divorce hearing, I woke up feeling... nothing. No relief, no sadness, just an odd emptiness that sat in my chest like an unfinished sentence. The divorce was done. The papers were signed, stamped, and filed. Monica was officially no longer my wife. So why did it still feel like something was left unsaid?

I went through my usual routine--coffee, half a bagel I barely tasted, and scrolling through emails I didn't care about. Work felt like a blur, just another obligation to get through. Even the nosy questions from my coworkers didn't faze me. How'd it go, man? You alright? The usual pity disguised as concern. I gave them the same half-smile and noncommittal answers. Yeah, it's over. Moving on.

By the time 6 PM rolled around, I was ready to just go home and let the silence swallow me whole. But then my phone buzzed. Maggie.

Maggie: Hey, divorcee. You drowning in whiskey yet?

I smirked, shaking my head.

Me: Not yet. Give it an hour.

Maggie: Let's cut that time in half. Meet me at O'Malley's. First round's on me.

I hesitated, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Part of me wanted to say no. But another part--the part that wasn't quite ready to sit alone in a quiet house--typed back before I could think too hard about it.

Me: I'm in. See you in 20.

--------

O'Malley's was quiet for a Friday night, the kind of place where the jukebox still played classic rock, and the bartenders actually remembered your name. Maggie was already there when I arrived, leaning against the bar with a beer in hand, looking way too at ease for someone who had probably spent the day filing government reports and making vendors cry.

She glanced up as I approached and smirked. "Damn, you actually showed up. I half expected you to ghost me."

I shrugged, sliding onto the stool beside her. "You did say first round's on you. I'd never pass up free alcohol."

Maggie chuckled and signaled to the bartender. "Whiskey?"

I nodded. "Neat."

The bartender poured my drink, and I took a slow sip, letting the burn settle in my chest. For the first time all day, I actually felt something. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the company, but the tension that had been sitting in my shoulders all day finally started to ease.

Maggie nudged me lightly with her elbow. "So, how's it feel? Officially back on the market."

I exhaled, swirling the whiskey in my glass. "Weird. Anti-climactic. Like I was expecting some kind of... I don't know, moment of clarity. But it's just another day."

She studied me for a moment before taking a sip of her beer. "You spent over twenty years with someone. You don't just flip a switch and move on overnight."

I scoffed. "You sound like my therapist."

Maggie smirked. "I'm way more fun than your therapist."

I chuckled, shaking my head. "Fair point."

We fell into an easy rhythm, the conversation flowing in that effortless way it always did with Maggie. She was sharp, sarcastic, and knew exactly when to push and when to just let me sit in silence. She told me about some insane procurement debacle at work, I told her about my boss trying to guilt-trip me into working late because "single men have no excuse to leave on time."

At some point, the bartender refilled our drinks without asking. I barely noticed.

--------

It wasn't until my third glass of whiskey that I realized how close we had gotten.

Maggie was turned toward me now, her elbow on the bar, her body angled like she was letting her guard down in a way I rarely saw. Her eyes--green, sharp, and always calculating--were softer than usual.

"So," she said, tilting her beer bottle toward me, "be honest. You regret it?"

I knew what she meant. The divorce. The choice to finally walk away.

I let out a slow breath. "No."

Her lips quirked upward, but she didn't look convinced. "Not even a little?"

I hesitated. "I regret that it got to the point where I had to do it. But the divorce itself? No. Monica made her choices. I made mine."

Maggie nodded slowly. "Good."

She didn't say anything else. Didn't try to convince me otherwise or tell me it would get better. She just let the words sit between us, unspoken but understood.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like I had to defend myself.

--------

The bar started emptying out, and neither of us moved to leave.

"Alright, Parker," Maggie finally said, stretching her arms over her head, "enough depressing shit. Let's talk about your future. What's next for the newly single man of the hour?"

I snorted. "Oh, you mean besides work, sleep, and figuring out how to cook something that isn't microwavable?"

She grinned. "I hear dating is fun. You should try it sometime."

I raised an eyebrow. "You volunteering?"

It was meant as a joke.

But Maggie didn't laugh.

Instead, she just gave me this long, unreadable look--the kind of look that made my stomach do something weird and unfamiliar.

Then, she smirked. "Not yet."

Something about the way she said it made my brain short-circuit. Not yet.

I took another sip of whiskey, suddenly aware of just how close she was sitting, how the warmth of her arm brushed against mine every time she shifted.

For the first time since Monica left, I felt something real.

And it scared the hell out of me.

---------

By the time we finally left O'Malley's, the air was cool, the streets quiet.

We walked side by side toward the parking lot, neither of us in a hurry to say goodnight.

Maggie stuffed her hands into her pockets, glancing over at me. "So. You gonna be okay?"

I thought about it for a second. Then nodded. "Yeah. I think I will."

She smiled, and for the first time all night, it wasn't teasing--it was just real.

"Good," she said. "Because I need a drinking buddy, and I'd hate to have to replace you."

I smirked. "Guess I'll have to stick around, then."

She opened her car door, pausing for just a second before looking at me again. "Hey, Travis?"

"Yeah?"

She hesitated. Then, in a voice just a little softer than usual, she said,

"Don't disappear, okay?"

I exhaled, feeling something settle in my chest.

"I won't."

She nodded, satisfied, and slipped into her car.

I watched her drive away, standing in the quiet night, feeling something shift inside me.

Something I wasn't quite ready to name.

Not yet.

__________________

Travis:

It had been a regular Monday morning at work, the kind where the coffee tasted slightly burnt, and the emails never stopped coming. I was in the middle of writing a status report when Maggie appeared at my cubicle, leaning casually against the partition like she owned the place.

"Hey, Trav."

I blinked. Trav. Not Parker. Not even Travis. That was new.

I glanced up at her, raising an eyebrow. "Trav?"

She smirked. "What? You don't like it?"

I shook my head, turning back to my screen. "Just didn't know we were at the nickname stage."

Maggie rolled her eyes. "We've had drinks, you've danced like a damn pro, and I've watched you dodge nosy coworkers for months. I think we're past formalities."

I chuckled. "Fair enough."

She tapped a knuckle on my desk. "Speaking of dancing..."

I stopped typing, glancing at her again. "Yeah?"

Maggie folded her arms, a smug glint in her eye. "I was thinking--you ever gonna show off those dance moves again? Or was that a one-time performance?"

I scoffed. "Please, I was holding back."

"Oh, is that right?" she teased.

I smirked but didn't argue.

Maggie tilted her head. "So, next Friday, you in? Salsa night. Same place."

I hesitated for half a second, but the idea didn't sound bad. It had been months since I stepped foot on a dance floor, months since I let myself actually enjoy something for the sake of it.

And, if I was being honest, dancing with Maggie had been different.

She must have caught my hesitation because she nudged my arm. "Come on, Trav. I know you want to."

There it was again. Trav.

I exhaled, rubbing my jaw. "Alright, fine. But don't expect a full routine."

Maggie grinned, pushing off my desk. "No promises."

I watched her walk away, rolling my eyes to myself. Trav. Damn it, I kind of liked it.

---------------------

Rio Lounge was packed, the familiar rhythm of salsa music pulsing through the floor as couples moved effortlessly in sync. The air was warm with the scent of sweat and perfume, laughter mixing with the music as people lost themselves in the moment.

I stood near the bar, nursing a whiskey while Maggie was talking to her sister, Lorna, who had dragged Michael along again. She had convinced them to join, though I suspected Lorna just wanted to see if Maggie would survive another round of dancing with me.

Maggie returned, a playful glint in her eyes. "You ready?"

I raised my glass slightly. "I'm enjoying my drink."

She huffed. "Trav."

I glanced at her. That was the third time tonight. She had fully committed to it.

Maggie grabbed my hand, tugging me toward the dance floor. "Drink later. Dance now."

I let her pull me in, the heat of the crowded room pressing around us. The music shifted into a faster beat, the kind that demanded movement.

I slid one hand to her waist, the other taking her hand. The moment I stepped into the rhythm, it was like flipping a switch.

Maggie's breath hitched slightly as I led her into a clean, precise turn, guiding her back seamlessly.

"You're holding back again," she accused, her voice teasing but breathless.

I smirked. "Maybe."

She narrowed her eyes. "Coward."

I chuckled, and just to prove a point, I shifted gears.

I led her into a sharp turn, guiding her into a fluid spin before pulling her back in just close enough that she had to catch her breath.

Her fingers tightened against mine.

Her eyes flickered with something--not just surprise, but something else.

"You're dangerous," she muttered, a little breathless.

I leaned in slightly, voice low. "Told you."

We danced, the movements coming effortlessly, the space between us shrinking with each step.

And then it happened.

At some point in the song, Maggie's fingers slid from my shoulder to the back of my neck.

Not in a casual way. Not accidental.

Intentional.

I noticed.

And judging by the way her breathing changed, so did she.

The song slowed, and I dipped her, her body arching gracefully before I pulled her back up. We were close now, neither of us moving away.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

The world around us faded--the music, the people, everything.

I should have pulled away. I should have made a joke, lightened the moment.

But I didn't.

Maggie looked up at me, lips parted like she was about to say something.

But before she could, I did.

"Mags."

Her breath hitched. "Yeah?"

I searched her face, trying to figure out what the hell I was doing--what the hell this was.

She didn't move away.

Didn't break eye contact.

And then, just before I could say something stupid--

The next song started.

The moment broke like a snapped string, and suddenly, we were just two people standing too close on a dance floor, caught in something neither of us planned for.

Maggie took a step back first, clearing her throat. "Damn," she said, shaking her head like she was trying to reset. "I really need more lessons."

I let out a breath of laughter, running a hand through my hair. "Yeah. Sure."

She smirked, but there was something different in her eyes now.

Something that told me this wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.

----------------

We stepped outside into the cool night air, both still catching our breath.

Maggie ran a hand through her hair, glancing at me. "That was..."

I arched an eyebrow. "Unexpected?"

She let out a soft laugh. "Yeah. That."

A beat of silence.

Then, before I could think too hard about it, I said, "Wanna do this again next week?"

Maggie blinked, clearly caught off guard.

Then, slowly, she smiled.

"Yeah," she murmured. "I'd like that, Trav."

Trav.

I let the name settle in my chest.

I smirked. "Good."

And just like that, we were walking into something neither of us fully understood yet.

But for the first time in a long time, I didn't mind not having all the answers.

__________________

Travis:

The house was too quiet.

I had been staring at the ceiling for the last hour, lying in bed, listening to the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the occasional creak of the house settling. I hated nights like this--the ones where sleep wouldn't come, and my mind wouldn't shut up.

I had gone through the usual routine--reading pointless articles on my phone, scrolling through emails I didn't care about, even considering watching some mindless show until I passed out. But nothing worked. The silence was suffocating.

Then, my phone buzzed.

At first, I thought I imagined it. But no--the screen lit up, casting a faint glow in the dark room.

Maggie.

I frowned, glancing at the time. 12:42 AM.

She wasn't the type to call just to chat--especially not at this hour.

I answered without hesitation. "Mags?"

A beat of silence. Then a sigh. "Hey, Trav."

Trav.

The nickname had stuck after the dance night. I should have found it annoying. But I didn't.

I sat up, rubbing a hand down my face. "What's going on? You alright?"

She let out a breathy chuckle, one that didn't quite reach laughter. "Define 'alright.'"

That was all I needed to hear.

I leaned back against the headboard, the cold air hitting my bare skin where my t-shirt had ridden up. "Rough night?"

She hesitated. "Yeah. You?"

I glanced at the empty side of my bed, the one that had been unoccupied for months. "Same."

Another pause. This one longer.

Neither of us spoke, but neither of us hung up. It was comfortable, in a way. Just knowing someone was on the other end of the line.

Finally, Maggie sighed. "I don't even know why I called."

I smirked slightly. "Because I'm the only idiot awake at this hour?"

She let out a soft laugh. "That, or I just wanted to annoy you."

"Mission accomplished."

Another beat of silence. But this time, it felt heavier. Like she wanted to say something but didn't know how.

I let my voice soften. "Talk to me, Mags."

She inhaled sharply, like she wasn't expecting that. "I--" She stopped herself. "It's stupid."

"If it was stupid, you wouldn't have called me."

She sighed again. "I just... I hate nights like this."

I knew exactly what she meant.

"The ones where your brain won't shut up?" I guessed.

"Yeah," she murmured. "Where everything you thought you buried just... comes back."

I swallowed, nodding even though she couldn't see me. "Yeah. I get that."

More silence.

Then, she spoke again, her voice quieter this time. "Do you ever think about what comes next?"

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

She hesitated. "Like... after everything. After the divorce, after the dust settles. Do you ever think about what's next for you?"

I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. "Honestly? No. I've been too busy trying to survive the present to worry about the future."

Maggie hummed in understanding. "Yeah. Same."

Another pause.

Then, a shift.

A hesitation in her breath. A weight in the silence.

I felt it in my chest, the unspoken question hanging between us.

And for the first time since this whole mess started, I wanted to answer it.

"Mags." My voice was quieter now. "You're not alone in this."

She let out a shaky breath. "Neither are you, Trav."

I swallowed hard, because that meant more than it should have.

I wanted to say something else--to tell her that I appreciated this, that I needed this. But the words felt too big, too heavy for this moment.

Instead, I let the silence fill the space between us, warm and unspoken.

And for the first time in a long time, the quiet didn't feel so suffocating.

__________________

Travis:

It started off like any normal day. Emails, coffee, spreadsheets. The usual routine.

I had spent the morning buried in work, trying to ignore the growing exhaustion that came with juggling life after divorce. Therapy. Work. The kids. Pretending to have it all together. It was a lot.

But I had been doing better.

At least, I thought I had.

Then, during my lunch break, I walked into the café across from the office--a little hole-in-the-wall place with overpriced sandwiches but damn good coffee.

And that's when I saw her.

Maggie.

She was sitting by the window, her face lit up in laughter as she talked to some guy across the table.

I frowned.

It wasn't that I didn't know Maggie had a life outside of work. Of course, she did. She was Maggie Donaldson--smart, sharp, funny as hell. She wasn't the type to sit around waiting for anyone.

But this? This was different.

The guy sitting across from her was tall, fit, exactly the type of guy you'd expect to see in one of those high-end gyms that charge you a kidney for a membership. He was leaning in slightly, his posture open and relaxed.

And Maggie?

She looked comfortable. She looked like she was actually enjoying herself.

Something in my chest tightened.

I didn't understand it at first. It wasn't like I had any claim on her. She was my friend. That was it.

Right?

But then she laughed again, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear as the guy said something that made her smile.

And suddenly, I hated him.

It wasn't rational. It wasn't fair.

But I hated him.

I clenched my jaw, debating whether to just leave before she saw me. But of course, she did.

Her eyes flicked up, and when she spotted me, her expression shifted--just slightly.

Her smile softened, her posture straightened.

She waved.

I forced myself to act normal.

I nodded in acknowledgment, grabbing my coffee from the counter like I wasn't seconds away from throwing it at Mr. Perfect across from her.

Then, I turned to leave.

But before I could step out the door, I heard her call my name.

"Trav."

I exhaled slowly before turning around. "Mags."

She stood, giving her companion a quick nod before walking over to me. "What are you doing here?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Getting coffee. Revolutionary, I know."

She smirked, but there was something else in her expression now. Something questioning.

I glanced back at her table. "Didn't mean to interrupt. Looked like you were having a good time."

Maggie tilted her head slightly, studying me. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Too fast. Too forced.

Her lips twitched. "You sure? Because you just looked at Jared like you wanted to set him on fire."

Jared.

Of course, he had a name.

I scoffed, shaking my head. "I don't even know the guy."

Maggie arched an eyebrow. "That didn't stop you from glaring at him like he stole your car."

I rolled my shoulders. "I wasn't glaring."

She let out a small chuckle. "Oh, you were. Full-on death stare. It was kinda impressive, actually."

I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated with myself more than anything. "Look, I just--" I hesitated. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

Maggie crossed her arms. "And?"

I opened my mouth. Then shut it.

Because I didn't have an answer that didn't sound ridiculous.

And Maggie knew it.

She let out a soft sigh. "Trav..."

Something about the way she said it--soft, knowing, like she was waiting for me to figure out something I hadn't let myself admit yet--made my chest tighten even more.

I looked away. "Forget it."

Maggie was quiet for a long moment. Then, finally, she spoke.

"I wasn't on a date."

I frowned, glancing at her. "What?"

She shrugged. "Jared? He's an old college friend. Married. Two kids. He was just in town for work."

I stared at her, trying to process that information.

And the weight of my own reaction hit me like a freight train.

I had assumed.

I had felt something I had no right to feel.

And Maggie saw right through it.

She smirked slightly. "You were jealous."

I scoffed. "I was not."

She stepped closer, her voice dropping slightly. "You so were."

I held her gaze, my heart pounding a little too fast. "Does it matter if I was?"

Her smile faltered. Just a little.

For the first time since this whole thing started, I saw hesitation in her.

Like she didn't know what to do next.

Like maybe, just maybe, this was new for her too.

Finally, she exhaled and shook her head. "No. I guess it doesn't."

But we both knew that was a lie.

Because it did.

It mattered.

A hell of a lot more than either of us wanted to admit.

__________________

Travis:

Following Friday, the sky had been threatening rain all day.

Thick, heavy clouds rolled over the city skyline, the air charged with the kind of electric anticipation that came before a storm. I had ignored it at first, too caught up in my own thoughts, but as I walked out of the bar with Maggie beside me, the first raindrops finally started to fall.

She glanced up, smirking. "Told you we should've left earlier."

I chuckled, shoving my hands into my pockets. "Oh, come on. A little rain never hurt anyone."

As if on cue, the sky opened up.

One second, it was a light drizzle. The next, it was a full-on downpour, soaking through my shirt in seconds.

Maggie cursed, letting out a surprised laugh as she tried--and failed--to shield herself with her arms. "Yeah, okay, this is more than a little rain!"

I grabbed her wrist, tugging her toward the nearest awning. "Come on."

We sprinted for cover, dodging puddles and half-laughing at how completely drenched we already were. By the time we reached the awning of an old bookstore, both of us were dripping, water rolling down our faces.

Maggie shivered slightly, brushing wet strands of hair away from her face. "Well. This is just fantastic."

I smirked. "I think you mean romantic. You know, classic movie moment. Two people, caught in the rain, dramatic tension..."

She rolled her eyes but grinned. "Trav, if you think I'm about to swoon and confess my undying love, you need to cut back on the rom-coms."

There it was again. Trav.

She had been calling me that for weeks now, ever since she first dropped the nickname casually at work. I had pretended not to notice, but every time she said it, something about it stuck.

Something felt different now.

The air between us wasn't just filled with rain--it was heavy with something else.

Something I had been trying to ignore.

Maggie shifted, wrapping my jacket tighter around her shoulders, even though it was already drenched. "You're staring," she said, voice quieter now.

I blinked. I was.

And suddenly, I realized why.

It wasn't just that she was Maggie--my sharp-tongued, no-nonsense, pain-in-the-ass friend.

It wasn't just that she was beautiful--though, standing there, soaked from head to toe, cheeks flushed from the cold, she was.

It was everything.

The late-night phone calls. The easy banter. The way she called me Trav like it had always been my name. The way she looked at me now--like she was waiting for me to figure out something she already knew.

I took a slow step forward.

Maggie's breath hitched.

For the first time since my marriage imploded, I wasn't thinking about Monica. I wasn't thinking about divorce hearings or therapy or all the ways my life had gone off the rails.

I was just thinking about her.

She must have seen it in my eyes, because her smirk faded.

"Trav..." she started, but her voice was softer now. Less teasing. More unsure.

I didn't let her finish.

I closed the space between us and kissed her.

The rain pounded against the pavement, water dripping from our clothes, but none of it mattered.

Her lips were warm, even in the cold. She let out a tiny gasp before kissing me back, fingers gripping the fabric of my wet shirt, pulling me closer.

And suddenly, I was all in.

I wasn't holding back. I didn't want to.

Her hands slid up to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my damp hair. I deepened the kiss, pouring every unspoken thought into it, every moment I had brushed aside, every feeling I hadn't let myself acknowledge until now.

I didn't know how long we stood there, lost in it.

When we finally broke apart, our foreheads pressed together, Maggie let out a breathless laugh.

"Well, damn," she murmured.

I chuckled, my hands still on her waist. "Yeah. Damn."

She looked up at me, eyes still searching. "So... was that just to shut me up, or was that a declaration of war?"

I smirked, brushing a stray raindrop from her cheek. "Maybe both."

Maggie let out a short laugh, but it didn't reach her eyes.

Because she knew, just like I did--this wasn't something we could joke our way out of.

This was real.

And neither of us were quite ready for what came next.