Page 26 of Chasing the Other Woman

“You know who was scared? Your wife. Sam. She thought you might be dead. She ran to you. And when she got there, you were holding another woman, telling her that you couldn’t have made it without her.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Doesn’t matter what you mean when the blade’s already in.”

I flinch.

“She left with tears in her eyes, Brooks. She tried not to let me see that, but that girl was hurting too much to hide it very well. She’s got pride enough to outlast us all, but I saw. And you’re the one who made her cry.”

I didn’t want to make her hurt, I think. I don’t say it. Because I know exactly what Hershel would say to that, and he’d be right.

“Sam’s been devoted to you. She stayed when you benched her. Watched another woman take her place and didn’t threaten to leave once.” His voice softens just a bit, but not enough to give me any breathing room. “I watched the two of you fall in love. Watched both of you build this thing together. And then I watched you cut her out of the thing she loved more than anything.”

“Don’t.”

“Someone has to.”

“I was trying to keep her safe.”

“No. You were trying to keep you safe from having to feel anything that scared you.”

I want to argue. Tell him he’s wrong. Nothing comes out.

“Fix it, Brooks. Or lose her forever.”

The door closes behind him. I sit inside the office until the light completely leaves the sky.

The house is so quiet when I finally step inside it that I’d almost believe I stepped inside the wrong house if it weren’t for all the evidence around me of the life we built here.

Sam’s mug is still by the sink, unwashed. I absentmindedly open the drawer beneath the Keurig to see if all her flavored coffee pods are still there. There’s a note on the counter in her handwriting reminding me that a service person is coming to check on the weird clicking sound the new fridge is making. It’s a stupidly banal thing to focus on, but I trace the handwriting anyway.

In the bedroom, her closet door remains open, the light still on from when she pulled stuff out to take with her. I wonder how long I can keep living inside a museum of everything I broke.

She has to come back. That’s all I can think. When she figures out that I didn’t mean any of the things I said, the things I did, the way they came out…

You’re an idiot, Brooks Carlisle.

When sleep refuses to come, I make my way downstairs to the office.

Only to discover that it’s worse.

Sam’s books crowd the shelves, evidence of all the things she’s loved and studied over the years. A framed photo of us in the truck cab sits on the desk. I remember taking it, holding the phone out so I could get both of us in the shot. She looks happy there, smile wide, leaning onto my shoulder. I look happy, too.

I was because she was with me.

I open the desk drawer, looking for a charger, when I see it: a blue folder with Sam’s handwriting on the tab.

Field Return

For a moment, I just stare at it, as if it can reach up and bite me.

Then I take it out and open it.

The first page is printed research on updated harness systems for chase vehicles. The second is a list of safety protocols.

There’s a note on one of the pages:

Medical clearance? Full physical, maybe a trauma specialist, too? Don’t make him feel blindsided.