Chapter 3

"Fine," I said to his back. "If she's not leaving, I am."

Neither of them responded. Cyrus was too busy cooing at Falon, assuring her everything was fine.

I walked out of the kitchen, went upstairs, and packed a bag. Not with the sensible, conservative clothes Cyrus liked, but with the things I hadn't worn in years. Jeans with rips in them. A leather jacket. Brightly colored tops.

I went to the bathroom and took my hair out of its tight bun. I let it fall around my shoulders. Then I scrubbed the minimal, "natural" makeup off my face and put on a bold, red lipstick I hadn't touched since before we were married.

Looking in the mirror, I saw a stranger, but a familiar one. It was the Kelsey I had buried.

As I walked out of the house, I thought about all the changes I had made for him. He said he preferred my hair long, so I grew it out. He said short skirts were undignified, so I donated them. He said my friends were too loud, so I saw them less and less. I had reshaped my entire world to fit into his, and he hadn't even noticed.

I called my friend, Alvie Clay. We' d known each other since college. We'd always had a sort of friendly rivalry, pushing each other in classes and sports, but he was always there when it mattered. I hadn't seen him much since marrying Cyrus.

"Kelsey? Is that you? It's been a while," his voice was warm and familiar.

"Alvie, are you free? I need a drink. A lot of drinks."

We met at a downtown bar, a place I hadn't been to in years. My other friends, Lisa and Maria, met us there. As soon as they saw me, they knew something was wrong.

"Oh my god, Kelsey," Lisa said, hugging me tightly. "What happened?"

I told them everything. The whole sordid story of Falon, the grieving widow who was slowly taking over my life.

They listened, their expressions turning from shock to pure fury.

"She's playing him like a fiddle," Maria said, slamming her glass on the table. "The grieving widow act is classic. It makes him feel like a hero, and it makes you look like the villain."

"But why is he falling for it?" I asked, the alcohol making my head swim. "Is he that stupid?"

Alvie had been quiet, just listening. Now he spoke. "Maybe it's not about stupidity, Kels. Maybe it's about the baby."

We all looked at him.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"The baby," he repeated. "She says it's his brother's. Are we sure about that?"

The question hung in the air, ugly and sharp. We had all been thinking it, but he was the first to say it out loud.

I didn't want to believe it. It was too horrible. But the way Cyrus defended her, the way he put her needs above everything... it started to make a sick kind of sense.

I ordered another drink. And another. The world started to tilt and blur. The pain was a dull roar in my ears. I just wanted it to stop. The last thing I remembered was Alvie trying to take my keys.

Then, there was a commotion at the door. I looked up, my vision swimming.

It was Cyrus.

He looked furious. He strode over to our table, his eyes locking on Alvie. "What are you doing with my wife?"

"Taking her home, since you're clearly not," Alvie said, standing up to face him.

Cyrus ignored him. He grabbed my arm, pulling me out of the booth. "We're leaving."

I was too drunk to protest. He half-dragged, half-carried me out of the bar and shoved me into his car. The drive home was silent and tense.

The next morning, I woke up in our bed with a pounding headache. I was still in my clothes from the night before.

I stumbled downstairs for some water. Falon was in the kitchen, humming.

She turned and gave me a sympathetic smile. "Oh, you're awake. Cyrus was so worried about you last night. He carried you all the way up to bed. He really does care about you, you know."

Her words were sweet, but her eyes were mocking. She was enjoying this.

Then I saw it. On the counter, next to the coffee maker, was a single glass and a box of aspirin. But next to it was a fancy breakfast tray, piled high with pancakes and fruit, clearly meant for Falon. He had brought me aspirin, but he had made her a feast.

He hadn't carried me to bed because he cared. He had done it because he was angry I was making a public scene. It was damage control.

"He was so worried," I repeated, my voice dripping with sarcasm, "that he left me a box of aspirin and then went to make you a three-course breakfast?"

Falon' s smile vanished. She knew I had seen right through her little performance.

"You think you're so clever, don't you?" I said, stepping closer. "You think you have him wrapped around your little finger. But you're just a parasite, Falon. And this house is done feeding you."