I feel for Anthony now more than ever. I realize that it must be so incredibly difficult for him to stay true to one person. I truly believe he is incapable — the poor, poor man. 

It doesn’t help that he’s so handsome, either. I’m sure if he were hideous, he wouldn’t be tempted by all of these beautiful women in the first place.

I completely acknowledge the fact that I am finding ways to justify his behavior. He is a complete jerk, that I cannot deny, but he has a soft side, a gentle and compassionate side that very few women get to witness. He is only human, after all. 

I understand how incredibly difficult it is to be married to a sex addict, though. I feel for Candace. I think of her and Lilly, and wonder what will come next for them. Will she leave him, as I did? Or will she hold on through turmoil in the hopes of a better future? 

I truly believe there is no changing that pathetic man. I hate him, yet I love him still. How is it even possible, after all these years, after all those times he screwed up and wounded me so badly?

I returned home to an empty apartment that evening. It’s so quiet and peaceful that I feel tempted to fall into a blissful sleep. Instead, I decide to pour myself a tall glass of pinot noir and settle down to watch a movie, when a text comes in. It’s from Candace.

Can you come over, please? I don’t know who else to talk to right now. I’m sorry to bother you, but I could really use a friend.

My eyes widen in disbelief.

Friend? How am I her friend all of a sudden?

When she came by to check out the preschool for Lilly earlier that day, I had sensed she was trying to get close to me. She seemed much too friendly after the way I had treated her the other day. After all, Lilly hasn’t even had her first birthday yet. It seems far too soon for Candace to be concerned about preschool. 

I gave her a tour of the school grounds despite my iffy feelings, and acted as civil and polite as possible. Now, all of a sudden, she wants to be my friend?

I muster up the courage to not respond. I don’t want to give in to her. I am having a hard time understanding what she could possibly want from me, anyway. 

I settle down to find a good movie, when another text comes through…

I made a pie.

What in the world? Now she is trying to coerce me with pie?! 

My life is beginning to feel like a messy and rather ironic soap opera. I decide, begrudgingly, to dial her number and call her instead. 

She answers immediately, but her voice is muffled. She sounds like she’s been crying. “Hello?”

“Candace…” I try to find the words politely, “You’re going to be okay.” 

I’m so bad at this comforting business.

“Laura, I really need you to come over right now.” 

An orchestrate of sounds blares in the background, causing the line to crackle and cut out. All I can make out is Adrian is singing off key and Lilly babbling, as if seeking attention. I feel flooded with relief because they’re completely clueless as to what’s going on.

“Candace,” I say again, “I’m just about to…”

I feel my stubborn demeanor weakening, and I let out a deep sigh, “Ok. I will be over there soon.” 

Damn it…

When I arrive at her house ten minutes later, literally dressed in my jammies, I notice something unusual about the front door. There is a brownish-red streak of something smudged across the door handle, and angled towards the ground. I pause for a moment to assess the stain. I dare not touch it. 

My mind immediately goes to bloodshed, and conjures up the worst possible scenario. I run through a scene in my mind…

Anthony came home reeking of sex and perfume. His shirt buttons misaligned, as if coordinated by a three-year-old. His hair, a disheveled and sweaty heap on his head. 

She curses at him, throwing an empty glass liquor bottle in his direction in a fit of rage, lacerating his hand, and causing his blood to splatter across the door. 

This is some Johnny Depp/Amber Heard shit! I think to myself. 

I’m feeling apprehensive now, as she opens the door and gathers me in to give me a big, unwanted hug. I am unable to hug her back, as I stand there awkwardly in the doorway wishing for it to be over.

“So glad you came,” she says, looking me up and down. “You look comfortable…”

“It’s 9:30…” I say in the most sarcastic voice I hadn’t meant to procure. “I was getting ready for bed, and I have work tomorrow.”

She does not apologize despite my not-so-subtle protest. 

“Where’s Anthony?” I ask.

Before she can respond, Adrian runs up to me and gives me a massive hug, and this one I reciprocate, squeezing him back tightly and kissing his soft neck. He smells like maple syrup, and I can’t help but question. “Did you have breakfast for dinner?”

He smiles and nods. “We had pancakes!” He makes a sneaky face, and continues to grin like he’s done something profoundly naughty. 

I feel better all of a sudden. Just being in my son’s presence has seemed to lift my mood. Candace gestures for me to come to the living room, and I realize that Adrian should be in bed asleep by now.

“Can I take him upstairs and put him to bed?” 

She shrugs nonchalantly, and then finally responds, “Yeah, go ahead.”

I can’t blame her for being out of sorts. Putting my own son to bed is the least I can do while I’m here. As I walk up the beautifully-crafted wooden stairs, gripping the smooth, black stair rail, I become very aware of the fact that I have never seen this part of their house before. My curiosity begins to peak, and I catch myself trying to catch a glimpse of the master bedroom, but to no avail. Adrian opens the door to his bedroom instead, and I am immediately struck with pangs of jealousy. 

His room is incredible. One accent wall is painted a soothing shade of olive, a soft white on the others. There is a boho-inspired rattan pendant light hanging elegantly, spreading soft scattered light outwards from the center of the room. He has a bunk bed made of what looks to be natural rustic-looking oak. His bedding is soft and luxurious, printed with a pattern of tiny rainbows, each arch a different shade of neutral tones. He has a shaggy white circular rug in the center of the room, and his toys are neatly organized into bins and baskets, not strewn about the living room like they are at my house. The room is absolutely perfect. 

“Incredible,” I say out loud.

“Do you like my room, Mommy?” He looks pleased with himself.

“I love it,” I say sadly, because I understand I cannot provide this for him. I am happy that he has such an amazing space to retreat to, but I wish his room with me were far more exciting.

I make my way to the bottom bunk of his bed, and sit down. 

He comes to me and nestles into my lap, curling up like a little purring kitten. I reach down to stroke his soft wavy hair. 

“I’m so happy you’re here, Mom,” he says, ever so sweetly, an affectionate grin spreading across his face.

“I love you so much,” I say in return. I want this moment to last forever, but I know I must kiss him goodnight and retreat downstairs.

 A few moments pass.

“Do you usually sleep on the bottom bunk?” I ask, finally. 

No response.

He is beginning to snore ever so faintly. I sit up carefully and raise his little body higher on the bed, making sure to position his head on the pillow and cover him gently with the comforter. I lean down to kiss him on the forehead, and stroke his check softly. I force myself to get up and make my way toward the light switch, dimming the light to the lowest possible setting. 

I am not looking forward to chatting with Candace. As I make my way down the stairs, I can hear her rummaging through the kitchen. I wonder what she might be up to, when she pokes her head out into the hallway. 

“Come get some pie!” She calls to me, like I’m just one of her kids. 

Interestingly, her mood seems to have lifted, and she seems genuinely enthusiastic about me taste-testing the results of her stress baking. 

I make my way to the kitchen, feeling awkward and out of place in her beautiful home. 

I used to have a nice home, I think to myself, until we sold it.

Before I can say anything, she hands me a small china plate featuring a giant slice of what looks to be chunky peach pie, adorned with a dollop of vanilla ice cream. I am not one for sweets, but it definitely looks delicious. I take the teetering fork from the plate right before it falls, and I dig right in.

It’s still warm, and woah, it’s absolutely amazing!

Adrian has never mentioned anything about Candace being a good cook, and so I had never imagined her to be the baking type. As I load up my fork with another bite, I realize she has been studying me carefully, awaiting a response.

“Candace, it’s amazing,” I say finally. She looks chuffed, yet mildly suspicious. Then part of me wonders if she is trying to poison me…

“Glad you like it,” she says. “I do love to bake sometimes.”

I am tempted to sit down in order to finish the rest of the pie more comfortably. I feel completely exhausted, as I sink into one of the cushioned bar stools perched against her lavish white marble island. I don’t know what to say, and so I continue to eat until every last morsel is gone. 

I can’t believe I just ate all of that.

Candace sits next to me with her elbows resting on the countertop, her head held wearily between her hands. I face her with a calmness, and begin to take in her energy. I sense that she is in between nervous breakdowns. I feel sorry for her, but at the same time, I truly don’t.

“Thank you for the pie. It was so good.” 

She doesn’t look satisfied with my compliment, and I’m feeling ready to walk out at this point.

“When did you find out?” she asks, changing the subject. Her right eye is twitching ever so slightly. 

I know exactly what and whom she is referring to. I close my eyes to think and process, figuring this question would come at some point in time. “I honestly don’t know for sure when it all started, but I do know that he met you and started seeing you behind my back around the time Adrian turned three.” 

I open my eyes to study her reaction. 

She doesn’t react at all. 

In fact, I have waited three years for an apology from her, and right now she is refusing to acknowledge the hurt she has caused me. I start to grow angry, as I wait impatiently, realizing that it must be getting late.

She turns to look at me, finally. Her eyes droop with sadness as she gazes into mine, as though begging for me to cast some sort of spell that will break the God-awful curse that has become her life. “I loved him so much. How could he do this to me?!” She turns and shakes her head slowly. Now, all of a sudden, her gaze is distant and cold. 

“Candace,” I try to reason with her, “Anthony is a cheater. He has always been a cheater. We both need to get away from him. He will never change.”

She is still shaking her head, as she begins to sob. Tears stream down her cheeks, staining them, like salty pale rivers across a thick layer of mountainous make up.

“He’s sleeping with Ms. Paula!” She is sobbing even louder now, and I am beginning to worry that she will wake up the kids. Now she isn’t averting her gaze from me. Her eyes may be filled with tears, but they are becoming serious beads of fear. She decides that now is the perfect time to ask the pressing question: “Has he ever hit you, Laura?” 

“No, Candace.” I responded quickly, because I knew she would ask me that.

She puts a hand on my shoulder and leans in closer. “Hey, you can tell me, you know. I promise not to tell anyone.”

“Candace, he never laid a hand on me.” I stay calm and serious because that part is true.

She doesn’t look convinced at all. She gets up abruptly, goes to the cupboard and reaches for a giant handle of Kirkland vodka. I am watching her, waiting for her to grab a shot glass, or just a glass, in general, but she unscrews the cap, lifts the bottle to her mouth, and begins to chug. 

Jesus…

I wonder if I should try to stop her, or simply allow her to do her thing. It’s hard to watch, though. She stumbles to the counter, and sets her arms down. Her head is sunken between her shoulder blades. She is suddenly reminding me of a washed out trailer park hooker, and I feel ashamed for thinking this way. It’s just so hard to take her seriously when her dark eye make-up is no longer on her eyes, but smudged angrily beneath them.

“He tried to choke me.” 

“What?” I am genuinely surprised, because her story is already different to the one Anthony shared with me earlier today.

“He grabbed me by the throat and threw me down against his truck. He wanted to kill me, Laura.” She lifts her head to look me dead in the eyes. “He wants to kill me.”

I take a deep breath, and try to reassure her. “Anthony is not violent. He doesn’t want to kill you.”

“Oh, no. You don’t understand. The look he gave me, Laura — he fucking hates my guts.”

She says this so matter-of-factly. I don’t even know how to respond. I know Anthony. I know he would not try to kill her. I’m sure he didn’t even mean to scare her.

“Laura, you’re going to be fine,” I say. “Why don’t you get some rest, and I’ll come check on you tomorrow.”

“But I can’t sleep!” she protests. Tears begin to stream down her cheeks again. “He is out there somewhere planning my death!”

“Candace…”

“What if he comes tonight?!”

“Candace.” I want to roll my eyes deep into the back of my skull to escape this madness, metaphorically speaking.

“I’m dead serious! I don’t know where he is right now. I’m so scared!”

I am truly exhausted by this conversation. I want to go home, crawl into bed, and fall into a deep sleep. Yet, she wants me to stay. I know it. Deep down, I know I must do the right thing. 

“I will stay here with you tonight, Candace. I have to get up super early, though.” I try to make light of the situation. “I’m already in my jammies anyway.” I grin slightly, but she is not having it. 

She looks truly appreciative of my gesture, however. She sobs a pathetic, “Th-thank you.”

Without further ado, I clamber up the stairs to what I believe to be the guest bedroom, and without actually turning on the light to see what it looks like, I feel around in the darkness for a mattress. As soon as I throw my body down in surrender, I immediately fall into a deep sleep.