Page 109 of Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar 2)

wyer.’ You were indifferent. You were done with me. I got the cold shoulder for months, to the point where I didn’t know if you had ever cared. I hurt you and you dismissed me. You shut down.”

“You broke me. That wasn’t a secret.”

“And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve apologized. I’ll always regret it.”

“Just . . . don’t.” Finn ran his hands through his hair. “Please, I don’t want to talk about it. I can’t.”

“Fine.” I sighed. “Listen, I’ve got a bunch of stuff to do before the kids get home. Maybe you should pack. I think Poppy and your parents can get you to and from work and PT for the next couple of weeks.”

He staggered back a step. “You’re really kicking me out?”

“Yes.” I nodded. “I meant what I said outside. This is too confusing. I can’t do this with you again. My heart can’t take another ending with you.”

“Molly,” he said gently. “It doesn’t have to end.”

“But it will.” I lowered my voice. “It will. You want to pretend like we didn’t slaughter each other. This.” I picked up the letter. “This is a problem. It will resurface, maybe not tomorrow or the next day. But eventually, it will come up again and rip us apart. We can’t ignore it.”

“You really want to talk about it?” His jaw ticked. There was fire in his eyes. “You want to know how I feel?”

I braced. “Yes.”

“I feel the same way I did when I wrote that letter. I hate you for it.”

A punch to the gut would have felt better. “You hate me?”

“I hate what you did. I hate that another man was inside of you.”

“So do I.” My chin fell as shame washed over my shoulders.

“How? Why, Molly? Were things really that bad and I didn’t see it? Why didn’t you talk to me?”

Talk to him? The pain eased as my temper flared.

“I tried to talk to you,” I snapped, poking a finger into his chest. “I tried to talk to you every day. Yes, things were that bad. But you didn’t want to talk. You moved out. And every time I tried to talk to you or offer up a solution, you shut me out. You didn’t even bother showing up to a single counseling session.”

“I was busy.”

“Right,” I muttered. “Too busy. That was always the excuse. You were too busy to try and save our marriage. All I asked for was a few hours of your time to talk to a counselor.”

“You know how I felt about that counselor.”

“No. I don’t. Because you never told me. You just didn’t show up.”

“There was no way I was going to talk about our marriage to one of your mother’s fucking friends. The last thing we needed was Dr. Deborah knowing all about the shit going on in our life.”

“Seriously? That’s your excuse?”

“It’s not an excuse.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” My arms flailed in the air. “I would have picked another counselor. I would have gone to anyone. But instead, you just didn’t show.”

“I told you from the beginning I didn’t want to see that counselor. You made the appointments anyway.”

“Because I wanted to save our marriage. We were drowning.” I’d been drowning. I hadn’t tried to hide it either. I’d worn my exhaustion on my face. The slump of my shoulders. The way I’d curl into a ball and sleep huddled into myself at night. They’d been there. All of the signs. “And you didn’t seem to care.”

“That’s bullshit.”

I steeled my spine and challenged, “Is it?”