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I try to stop the tears, but they have a mind of their own. There’s no way I can drive like this, so I pull over to the nearest available parking spot and lean my head against the steering wheel.
Why would Sylvia go to such lengths to make up such a horrible story about me? Like I would ever eat that many cupcakes in one sitting. But even if I did, why would she make such a point to humiliate me over that? Not just in front of Megan, but everyone in the coffee shop.
If I did something to upset her, I wish she’d act like an adult and talk to me about it. There are few things I like less than conflict, so I would quickly try to make amends. However, after the way she just treated me, that ship has sailed. Now that I’ve seen her true colors, I don’t want that woman anywhere near me.
The stupid tears won’t stop. At this rate, I’m going to sit here until it’s time to pick up the littles from preschool. And I’m going to have to stop by home first because my makeup is ruined.
I put on some upbeat music and manage to calm down enough to drive. One look in the mirror tells me what I need to know. My makeup is smeared all down my face. I wipe as much off as I can with a baby wipe then head for the house.
When I get there, Peter’s car is out front. Considering he has a full day and expects to fill in for Jack again, my heart skips a beat. Is he okay? Did he get sick or hurt?
The tires squeal as I pull into the spot next to his. I fumble to get the keys from the ignition and hurry inside, my mind conjuring worse and worse images with each passing moment.
Seriously, I need to ease up on the true crime podcasts. Normal people don’t have these gruesome thoughts when their spouse is home in the middle of the day. Then again, my nerves were already shot thanks to Sylvia.
After struggling with the locks, I fling open the door. “Peter! Are you in here?”
“In the kitchen.”
My knees turn to rubber with relief. He isn’t lying somewhere with a knife sticking out of his back. I close the door and race to him.
He’s sitting with a steaming mug and scrolling through the screen of his tablet. Not a care in the world when I was almost to the point of planning his funeral.
Peter glances up, and his eyes fill with concern. “Are you okay?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing. Why aren’t you at work?”
He yawns. “Vasquez took over my shift after hearing I’ve been covering for Jack all on my own. He said I deserved a break.”
Unable to deal with my emotions a moment longer, I throw my arms around him and squeeze. Can’t let go.
He holds me close. “What’s wrong, Ange?”
“I thought you were dead.”
“What? Why?”
“Never mind. It’s stupid.”
He steps back and holds my gaze. “Nothing you say is stupid. Tell me what’s going on.”
I don’t know if I can take any more humiliation today.
“Why did you think I was dead?”
“Because I’m already stressed. I assumed the worst when I saw your car in the driveway.”
Peter lifts an eyebrow. “You thought I was dead because the Mercedes was out front?”
“I told you it was stupid.”
“It isn’t.” He squeezes my hand. “Why were you stressed before you got here?”
I’m tempted to run from the room and hide under our bed like Owen does when he gets in trouble. But I’m an adult, and I know my husband is on my side.
He brushes a wisp of my hair behind my ear. “Let’s figure this out together.”
“We’d better sit down.”
