Lakeside Park

And as he fucks you against that bar stool, you cling to him, and you shatter in his arms as he whispers breathlessly how much he's wanted this, and how hard you make him, and how he's going to come way faster than he wants to but he's going to take you home and fuck you properly for the rest of your life because he already knows he wants you forever.

Well, maybe some of those things weren't totally universal to the restaurant industry.

But in any case, that was how it was for me and Scott. We worked together, and I kept working at the restaurant as his dad finally hired a new general manager and got Scott a job working as part of the corporate group, and then we got married and Scott didn't want me working there anymore.

"You don't need to," he'd said as we were cuddling in bed one night after a long shift. "You're my wife and I'm going to take care of you."

"Maybe I could go back to school," I'd suggested. "I could get a business degree and then I could help you with the corporate stuff."

"I thought you wanted to have kids."

"Well, yes," I said.

"If you want a baby, let's start trying."

I giggled as he rolled on top of me and kissed my neck. "Right now?"

"Damn straight, right now," he muttered, and then he was undressing me and caressing me and making love to me even though we both knew I would have to go off my birth control before anything happened.

Once we had Ramona, I didn't go back to work or to school or to anything.

I'd always wanted more than one, but Ramona was more work than I'd thought, and I was already focusing so much on being a mom that I nearly forgot how to be a wife. We talked about trying for another but never actually worked towards it. Years went on and Ramona grew and as she got older and more independent, I needed to keep myself occupied, so I started volunteering at her school and in the community. That became my career, my calling, my purpose, until the day she pleaded with me to let her just be a normal kid whose mom wasn't around all the time.

"Mrs. Roth!" Ramona's teacher said as I approached her at the high jump mats. "How are you?"

"Great, thanks," I said as convincingly as I could. "Actually, I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to head home now. I have a, uh, a bit of a headache."

"Of course not!" she said. "You don't know how grateful I am for your volunteering but we can manage with the parents we have today. You just go home and feel better."

I smiled. "Thanks."

She patted my arm. "I don't know what I'll do without you when Ramona starts fourth grade. You've made my life so much easier this year."

I held it together for my drive home. The thing about small towns like Minwack Falls is that everyone recognizes everyone, so as much as I wanted to sit in my car and just start crying, I knew someone would see me. The last thing I wanted was someone to witness my breakdown and spread that information around town. So, as I drove, I blinked rapidly and breathed in through my nose and exhaled slowly through my mouth. It helped a bit, though by the time I turned down Park Road, tiny whimpering sounds were accompanying every breath as I fought to keep them steady.

And then, all of that faded away.

Our house had a somewhat strange setup. There was a two-car garage, but it was attached on the side, not at the front. The driveway had room for three cars to be parked, the final spot sort of in front of our living room window. Scott and I both parked in the garage--usually--leaving three parking spots on the driveway for guests.

However, as Scott's truck was parked at an angle across the driveway in front of the garage, the only place I could park was the spot in front of the living room.

It wasn't alarming to see his truck in the middle of the day. Given how he was parked, my guess was he'd forgotten something and had stopped by to get it. After all, he wouldn't have expected me home in the middle of the day; he knew track-and-field day was an all-day event. More than anything, I was thankful to see his truck. It might not be especially common for him to stop at home, but I could use a sympathetic ear and a hug from my husband.

In hindsight, it's hard to believe how stupid I was.

My lip was trembling as I walked towards the front door, seconds away from being somewhere safe to have my breakdown. The door was unlocked and I let myself in, not making any particular effort to be quiet, though I didn't call out for him immediately as I usually would.

That was because he was also not making any particular effort to be quiet.

And neither was she.

I might have been too stupid to suspect what his truck being home in the middle of the day meant, but I figured out what was happening the moment the door closed behind me. My heart shut down; the sadness I'd been fighting on my drive home disappeared and instead of heartbreak, I felt nothing but numb realization.

For a heartbeat, I considered just waiting where I was, but standing there listening to them above me was far worse than just going and seeing it with my own eyes. There was no need to be quiet; there was no way they could hear me over the racket they were making. I put my purse in its usual place and slipped my shoes off, then walked up the stairs as the surrealness of the situation swirled around me.

The bedroom door was open; there was no reason to shut it, of course, since nobody was supposed to be there. Sticking out of the doorway was a pant leg; just beyond it was a bra; just beyond that was Scott's favourite blazer.

"Liz!" someone gasped, and I looked up from the blazer to see two sets of eyes staring at me. My husband's were wide and full of guilt as he stopped with his dick buried inside of Monica Halliday, who was on all fours in front of him. He had a handful of her beautiful black hair in his fist, forcing her neck up so she couldn't look away from me, her tits thrust forward and my bedsheets curled between her fingers.

"Hi, Monica," I heard myself say. "Would you excuse us for a moment? I need to speak with my husband."

**

"Wait, isn't your kid in high school?" Justin asked.

"She just finished her first year of university."

He was twisting the end of the joint as I held his cell phone up so he could see, but he stopped and looked up at me.

"Last time I checked, it was still Mrs. Roth."

I nodded. He stared at me, opened his mouth, then closed it.

"Why?" he finally asked.

"Why what?"

He scoffed. "You literally walked in on him with another woman and you stuck around?"

"It's not that simple. We have a daughter and--"

"Oh, sure, blame your kid for being stuck in a marriage where the only person who has less respect for you than your husband is yourself. Like, fuck." He shook his head. "God, people will do anything to keep the suburban dream going, eh?"

My throat felt tight and anger bloomed on my cheeks. "I don't blame my daughter for anything, and she wasn't the reason I chose to stay. You're what, Justin? Like twenty-one?"

"Twenty-three," he said indignantly. "Almost twenty-four."

"And you're not married."

He rolled his eyes. "So?"

"So you don't know what you're talking about! You're still young enough that you think it's all just black and white."

One side of his lip pulled up in a disgusted sort of grimace. "Right, I'm practically a newborn, so God forbid you explain anything to me."

"I wouldn't expect you to understand how--"

"If you're not even gonna give it a go, how am I supposed to? But yeah, you know what, you're right. I don't fucking understand why you put up with someone treating you like that."

"You've already judged me for staying, so what fucking difference is it going to make if I explain why?" I asked angrily.

He made to respond, then frowned as he thought it over.

"Okay, that's a good point," he said.

I stared at the half-rolled joint but didn't say anything. After another moment, Justin sighed.

"Sorry," he said. "Like, yeah. You're right. I just don't understand why you'd make that decision when you deserve better. No one should... people don't deserve to be cheated on, Liz."

"I didn't say it was a good decision," I said.

"You're right. I'm sorry. That was out of line."

"Thank you."

He sighed as he returned to rolling the joint. "Jesus. And I thought I had it rough."

"You probably still did," I said. "It's not a competition."

He smirked and lifted the joint in the air, studying it carefully.

"I guess," he said.

"What's the story there?"

He shrugged. "Typical shit. My dad walked out. My mom hit the wine a little too hard, and then the vodka, and then when that shit got too expensive, found a guy who'd buy the vodka for her. He moved us out here to live the middle-class-small-town dream but, of course, I'm her kid from her first marriage, so that's a black mark on me."

"Is that why you, um..."

"Um what?" he asked.

Heat rose on my cheeks and I gestured at him. "The, you know. Whole... look."

He burst out laughing. Light glinted off his piercings as he tossed his head back, then shook his head.

"You mean like, am I trying to piss my stepdad off by dressing like a good-for-nothing punk?" he asked.

"No, I just--" My face was burning in the darkness. "I guess I'm old and uncool."

He was still chuckling, but he shook his head. "Nah, it's all good. I guess I deserved that for judging you. Eye for an eye, man."

"I'm not judging you," I said.

"No?" He raised an eyebrow. "You'd call the cops on anyone you saw in the park, even if they didn't have tattoos and piercings and shit?"

"Yes," I said. "I would. I have."

When he started laughing again, I couldn't help but join in.

"I wear what feels good," he finally answered. "I dunno. I don't think anyone's ever straight-up asked me that before."

"Sorry," I said.

"Don't be." He dug into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. "Anyway, I rented one of the townhouses with a couple other guys after I graduated and started apprenticing as a mechanic with Bill L'Arbour at his shop and life's been pretty good since then, so I don't have much to complain about." He put the joint between his lips and glanced at me. "'Least not until I get married and try to live out the suburban dream, since that's apparently where it all goes to shit."

"Apparently," I agreed, watching as he lit up the joint.

He puffed on it, inhaling and holding his breath before letting out a plume of smoke, then held the joint out to me.

"Have you actually smoked weed before or were you just saying that?" he asked skeptically.

I had. I'd even smoked weed with Scott. But that was... well, Ramona was nineteen, and I'd had her when I was twenty-two, and I was pretty sure the last time Scott and I had smoked together was before our wedding so that would have been two years before that.

So of course, my bright idea to not respond and simply take a hit so I could exhale a bigger cloud than he had and prove I was at least a little bit cool completely backfired, and Justin burst out laughing as I coughed hard.

"Take it easy, Liz," he chuckled.

"I swear I have," I choked, trying to clear my throat. "It's just been longer than I remembered, apparently."

"Apparently," he said. "How long?"

"Back in the day," I said, laughing softly as I handed the joint back to him. "When I used to work at the restaurant. Before I got married."

He nodded as he took another drag. "So what happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your husband cheated on you a decade ago. That's not why you chose tonight of all nights to go rogue and break the town bylaws to smoke weed with some punk."

He offered the joint to me. I stared at it, blinking at the dot of red heat on the end of it before shaking my head.

"Liz?" Justin asked again a few moments later. "What happened?"

**

I woke up with a start, my heart racing and my eyes blind.

Blinking, I tried to figure out why I couldn't make out even the slightest detail of my bedroom, only to be completely disoriented as darkness was replaced by light. Just as my eyes adjusted, it faded, and then the house shook as thunder boomed right above me.

Another storm.

Reality faded in slowly; I reached for my nightstand only to bash my hand against something hard and much closer than my nightstand usually was. It took a moment of feeling around for me to realize that it wasn't my nightstand, it was the coffee table, and I wasn't in my bedroom, I had fallen asleep on the living room couch.

Lightning flashed again and I rubbed my eyes.

"Ramona?" I called.

There was no answer, but that wasn't unusual. I found my phone and flicked the flashlight on, intending to go up to her bedroom to make sure she was all right, but stopped dead as lightning flashed again and I glanced out the front window.

Her car wasn't in the driveway.

"Ramona?" I said again, as if repeating it louder would make her manifest when I was entirely certain she wasn't in the house.

Still, I ran upstairs to check and then down to the basement. She wasn't there and, after taking a quick glance into the garage to see if his truck was there, neither was Scott. They had both left the house hours earlier; I wasn't quite sure when I'd fallen asleep, but it seemed unreasonable that neither of them had returned. Panicked, I called Ramona's phone, only for it to go to voicemail immediately.

"Ra-Ra, it's Mom," I said unnecessarily. "I'm just checking in, your car's not in the driveway and it's about to storm again. Please let me know where you are. I love you."

I hung up and immediately dialled Scott's number. It rang but went to voicemail as well.

I didn't leave him a message, instead bolting to the door and grabbing my keys and purse. If Ramona wasn't going to answer, I needed to go find her before the rain started. It wasn't until I was wrenching the door to the garage open and mashing the opener to the left of the door that I realized the flaw in my plan; namely, the opener needed electricity to work and Scott had taken the generator with him.

For half a second, I considered ramming my car through the overhead door, but even I thought that seemed excessive.

Instead, I returned to the house and tried calling Ramona again, and then again, and then finally called Scott again. When he still didn't answer, I hung up, bit my lip, and then brought up the town Facebook page. As much as I hated bringing attention to anything going wrong in my own life, if someone had seen Ramona around town, it would at least give me some peace.

But before I could even type that post, Scott's name seemed to jump out at me from my notifications. Frowning, I clicked on the highlight notification and it brought me to his latest comment from just over an hour earlier.

Enough gas for one more stop! he had written. Who still needs help?

I know I already had my turn, so if someone else needs help, don't worry about it, Mallory St. John had replied. But if you're available, I could totally use a warm bottle to get the baby to sleep, @Scott.

Going once... he replied seconds later.

Going twice...

Alright everyone, going to @Mallory's for my last stop. Have a good night, all!

AMAZING!!!! THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!! she wrote.

I pressed my lips together.

Over an hour earlier.

He seemed to have helped half the town since he'd left, but his last stop at Mallory's had taken at least an hour?

Heart racing, I called Scott's phone again.

And again.

And again.

**

"Why?" I asked when he came down to the kitchen after Monica left.

"It was a mistake," he said.

"Why?"

"It won't happen again."

"Why?"

"I didn't mean to--"

"Tell me why." My voice cracked.

He sighed. "Why what?"

"Why what?" I repeated. "Why are you fucking someone else? Why her? Why on our bed? Why... just fucking why, Scott!"

Again and again, I asked him why. The truth was, it didn't matter.

I wish I could say I was one of those resolute women who was set on leaving her husband the moment she found out he was sticking his dick in the one place he said he wouldn't: namely, another woman.

I wish I could say I'd known my marriage was over the moment I'd walked in the door and heard Monica Halliday, our neighbour from across the street, the woman whose son had a joint first birthday party with my daughter, the woman I'd joked with a thousand times about how perfect it would be if our children grew up together and fell in love and got married one day, screaming his name as he drove himself inside her again and again.

At the very, very least, I wish I could say that Scott's pleading and begging and promises of the moon and the stars and everything in between had swayed me. I wish I could say he wore me down, that he talked me into staying, that I had been all set to tell him to get out of my house with nothing but a suitcase and his truck, that he could see our daughter on weekends and weekends only, that it was over until he convinced me to give him a second chance.

But that wasn't the truth. The truth was that I knew I wasn't leaving him the second I walked in the door.

I don't know if Scott knew it. I don't think he did. He still begged and pleaded and cried; I pretended like I had to think about it, like I didn't already know in a day or two I was going to be sleeping beside him like I always did. There was never a moment that I truly intended to leave him.

Divorce meant failure. Divorce meant all those people had been right; all the things they'd said about me being too young and flighty and immature to get married were true. It meant rumours and gossip around town, it meant losing everything I'd worked for, it meant starting over from scratch with nothing more than a high school diploma and a single job on my resume.

Most of all, it meant losing the man I loved.

Because at the end of it all, that was it. I loved him.

I thought I loved him.

I blamed myself for what he did; I blamed my lack of attention to him; I blamed my inability to balance being a wife and a mother and a person dedicated to being involved in her community. I looked in the mirror and blamed the woman there for her hips being wider than they used to be, for her stomach being softer, for the bags under her eyes and the fact that she didn't do her makeup as often anymore.

Through my tears, I asked him if those were the reasons why. Through his tears, he swore up and down that they weren't.

"Why didn't you just ask me for a divorce?" I whispered. "Why did you have to cheat?"

"Because I don't want a divorce."

He was sitting across the table from me, his head in his hands. When I looked up, his eyes followed, rimmed with red and full of shame and guilt.

"You don't want a divorce," I repeated. "You want to fuck Monica Halliday but you don't want a divorce."

"I never have," he said. "I thought things could change or... I've never stopped loving you. I swear to God, I've loved you every single moment since I've met you. I fucked up. I did something I can't take back. I hurt you. And I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry for it all. But I mean it, Liz. I fucking love you. I know I don't deserve a second chance but if--"

His voice broke and I waited as he collected himself.

"If what?" I pressed.

He opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head. After taking a deep breath, he cleared his throat and looked up at me with eyes that were earnest and passionate and fiercely sincere.

"I will do anything to stay with you," he said. "Whatever you... if you told me to go running naked down Main Street screaming that I'm a disgusting cheater who ruined his marriage to the best thing that ever happened to him, I would. Whatever you want, it's yours. Whatever you need me to do, I'll do it. Please, Liz."