Page 10 of One More Chance
That turned into flirtation, into inside jokes, into late-night texts that Sloane never saw. And Angie? She fed it.
"She sounds cold."
"You're not like other guys."
She knew exactly what strings to pull, and I was too arrogant to see I was another puppet.
I thought Angie was freedom. I thought she was validation. But she was a mirror, reflecting every ugly part of me I refused to face. Every choice I made with her came from a place of rot I hadn't treated and I justified it. Again and again.
I was bitter towards Sloane because she wanted to work. She loved the clinic and couldn't imagine a day without it. Ten or twelve-hour shifts, emergency surgeries, cases where some kid's dog came in mangled and she came home with its blood still under her nails. She was exhausted… always moving. The kids needed school lunches, rides, help with homework, doctors' appointments, orthodontist referrals.
I helped. Or, at least I thought I did. My self-centered ass couldn't see all the little things. I focused only on the obvious stuff: trash, dishes, the occasional school pickup when I "could spare the time." The mental load was always on her.
I had my phone, my secrets, my delusions of control. I made her the villain in my head just so I could feel righteous while betraying her. What I didn't see, the real weight, was how she carried it all. Emotionally. Logistically. Alone.
I only ever saw my own hunger.
Sloane had no idea. How could she? She was holding up the weight of our world, endlessly carrying the burden of our entire familyandher career day in and day out like Sisyphus.
Hell, I'd come home to find her asleep at the table after grading Liam's science project or helping Violet practice reading. The house was clean becauseshecleaned it. Groceries were stocked becausesheplanned every list. Doctor appointments? Calendars? Gift wrapping? Thank-you cards? Magic fairies didn't do that.Shedid.
I noticed all of it, but I didn't value any of it. Not the way I should have. Old Me had been incapable of appreciating her, because he was too busy feeling resentful that he wasn't being doted on. He was too blind to see she had nothing left to give.
So when Angie asked if I wanted to grab a drink one Friday night, I said yes. I said yes without thinking. Without guilt.
That night I met her, the bar was dim, music low, our booth tucked into a corner like a secret. I'd cleaned up after the gym, doing my best to look sharp and hoping to make an impression. But when I saw her, everything else vanished. I was star struck, blindsided by her presence. The rest of the world had slipped out of focus.
Angie wore red lipstick and a skin-tight dress that accentuated the tits her father had bought her. She touched my arm when she laughed. She asked, "Do you feel seen at home?"
I didn't answer right away.
She made me feel wanted, smart, and desirable. With Angie, I wasn't just a husband and father who mowed the lawn and cleaned out the gutters. She made me feel likemeagain. Except it wasn'tme.Not really. It was a narcissistic sickness within me that needed to be the center of the universe.
"I see you," she said, dragging her fingers along the inside of my wrist. "I bet your wife doesn't even appreciate you anymore."
I could have stopped it right then. I should have stood up and walked away.
Instead, I kissed her.
Chapter 5
If that kiss was a match I'd lit, then what came next was a grenade: one that I'd pulled the pin on. It had been over a week since Sloane and I had spent any real time together. The tension between us was thick and stifling, as if it was competing with the humid June evening.
One thing to understand is that Sloane and I both had ravenous sex drives. This was a compatibility that had once been our superpower and, incidentally, the reason Liam arrived during our reckless, hormone-fueled early twenties after being high school sweethearts.
As we got older, we rarely went more than a day without touching, without grinding ourselves against each other. Sometimes it was a quickie in the shower, other times a stolen “lunch break” that had nothing to do with food. It wasn’t glamorous, but it worked.
But that week, the rhythm had faltered. Life had gotten in the way with work schedules, kids’ activities, bills, and noise. The distance grew slowly, and when we finally found ourselves alone, the pressure we hadn’t spoken about all week detonated.
In hindsight, knowing what I now know, it's easy to see that most of our fights were foreplay masquerading as warfare; attraction hidden behind masks of anger.
Thisfight, however, wasnotthat.
There was no artifice for our animosity, as our wounded prides escalated our heated words to cruelty. We were both too sharp, too stubborn. I recall how sick I was of Sloane always being right about everything. I remember how I desperately wanted help, but I didn't know how to ask for it without sounding weak.
On this particular evening, Sloane didn't even look up from her phone when I walked in. Dishes were piled in the sink, the kids were half-dressed watching TV, and she was slumped at the kitchen table with a mug of something gone cold. She didn't even say "hi." I was already wound too tight: long day, long week, long month.
Old Me, being the insensitive and self-centered prick that he was, snapped. "You could at least pretend to be happy to see me."
