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Purple panties shoved to the side. Her skirt bunched around her hips. Those thick thighs spread wide while she took my dick and told me exactly what she wanted from me.

Fuck.

Goldie didn’t hold anything back. She wanted my hands on her, so she said it. She wanted my cum inside her, so she fucking asked for it. Even drunk off her ass, I never had to wonder what she meant or whether she was telling me the truth.

I look at Delia standing in the bedroom doorway.

I knew where I stood with Goldie from the second she opened her mouth. I haven’t known where I stood with my own wife for a fucking year.

I grab a handful of black socks and toss them into the bag.

Delia reaches out and catches my wrist before I can grab anything else. Her fingers tighten around me, then stop. I shake her off, the feel of her touching me making me want to rip my skin off.

Her attention drops to my left hand.

"Where’s your ring?"

I turn back to the dresser. "At the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico."

For half a second, all I can think about is Goldie standing beside me on the beach, making up that ridiculous story about Poseidon accepting it as an offering and giving me what I wished for.

A baby.

Fuck.

Maybe in a couple of weeks I’ll find out if she was right.

Delia’s mouth tightens. "Fine. If you're going to act like a child and run away, don't expect to come crawling back." She folds her arms across her chest. "I'm keeping the house."

“Good.” I grab the zipper on the duffel and yank it shut. “I don’t want it. Keep the sterile museum.” I gesture around us. “There’s nothing here I give a shit about keeping anyway.”

Her face tightens.

“I’ll call a lawyer tomorrow and get this started. I’d rather sleep in my truck than spend another night in that bed.”

I sling the thick strap over my shoulder, grab my favorite pair of sunglasses off the nightstand, and walk right past her.

“I’ll have movers come get the rest of my shit in a couple of days,” I tell her on my way out.

I throw my bag into the back of my truck and climb behind the wheel. A minute later, the house I bought to fill with kids is shrinking in the rearview mirror.

My phone lights up where I tossed it into the cup holder. I’ve got a string of unread texts from my dads that I’ve been avoiding for the last couple of days, followed by a wall of messages from Trace.

He’s been my best friend since college, which means he knows me well enough to figure out something’s wrong even when I don’t tell him shit.

The problem is, he’s always fucking hated Delia.

If I call him, it’s going to be a whole thing.

Another message lights up my phone before the screen goes dark again. Could be my dads. Could be Trace. Could be Delia for all I know.

I’m not dealing with any of them right now.

I pull up Colston’s number and call instead. He picks up after a couple of rings.

"Yo, Shamu," he says. "Where the hell have you been? I texted you yesterday to see if you wanted to grab a beer."

"I was out of town." I turn onto the main road and adjust my grip on the wheel. "You gonna be home for a while?"