Page 15 of Open Secrets (Infidelity #5)

Maria — Present

“My therapist thinks I need a therapist.”

The words fall out of my mouth as I push open the office door, still riding the bitter aftertaste of today’s session. I really, really should’ve checked first.

Because the second I step in, Debra turns her head slowly from the tray she’s setting up, her eyebrows crawling toward her hairline.

And the patient in the chair—Mrs. Fern, mid-forties, prone to root canals and gossip—just freezes with her mouth gaped open, the metal face hook keeping her jaw pried wide.

Perfect. Just perfect.

Debra doesn’t say anything, just tilts her head at me like you want to run that by me again? Her latex-gloved hand hovers above the suction tube, waiting for me to stop being a disaster in front of patients.

I stand awkwardly in the doorway, bag still slung over my shoulder, wishing I could shove the words back into my throat. “Right,” I mumble, forcing a smile toward Mrs. Fern. “Don’t mind me. Long lunch.”

Mrs. Fern blinks, eyes darting from me to Debra like she’s suddenly tuned into a soap opera.

Debra, mercifully, turns back to her tray. “Doctor Connelly will be right with you,” she says smoothly, her tone the perfect professional cover. Only the tight twitch of her lips betrays the fact that as soon as this poor woman leaves, she’s going to roast me alive.

I slip past, setting my bag down by the counter and pulling on gloves like I didn’t just announce my unravelling mental state in front of a patient.

I snap on the gloves, tugging them higher up my wrists, and nod toward the tray. “Alright, Mrs. Fern. Let’s take a look.”

Debra hands me the chart without a word, though her side-eye is loud enough to register. Cracked molar, bottom left. Emergency extraction. No wonder Mrs. Fern came rushing in.

“Bite down for me,” I say, pulling the overhead light closer. She does, metal glinting. “Okay. Open.”

She does again, slow and wide, the hook tugging at her cheeks. I peer inside, spotting the angry, jagged fracture of enamel. No saving that one.

“You’re right to come in,” I tell her, reaching for the syringe Debra already has ready. “That tooth’s not going to heal on its own. We’ll numb you up, and I’ll take care of it.”

Mrs. Fern makes a garbled noise around the hook. Debra pats her shoulder. “She’s the best, don’t worry.”

I steady the needle in my hand. My own fingers are shaking faintly, not from the task but from the weight of Nina’s voice still echoing in my skull: No human can hold all of that alone.

Focus.

“All done,” I say, dropping the tooth into the tray. “You did great.”

Mrs. Fern sags into the chair with relief, mumbling something grateful around the gauze Debra tucks in.

I strip off the gloves, toss them into the bin, and smile like my heart isn’t pounding with leftover adrenaline that has nothing to do with teeth. “We’ll check on the healing in a week. Rest today. Soft foods, nothing hot. You’ll be fine.”

She nods, cheeks flushed. Debra and I watch as the receptionist wheels her out.

The second the door clicks shut behind her, Debra whirls on me. “Okay. Spill.”

I open my mouth ready to dump everything on her, but I don’t get the chance since the intercom buzzes, sharp and annoying. “Dr. Connelly, your next patient is ready.”

I exhale through my nose, already reaching for fresh gloves.

“Drinks after work?” I ask quickly, my hand already on the door.

Debra narrows her eyes, like she wondering whether or not it can wait. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I mutter, pushing into the hall before she can pin me down again.

I try to throw myself into the afternoon appointments, burying the session under drills, suction tubes, and the steady hum of the chair. Be productive, I tell myself. Be useful. If I keep moving, maybe the words will stop replaying.

But they don’t.

I’m broken. That’s what I heard, no matter how gently Dr. Nina dressed it up.

I know I didn’t handle Rain’s illness well.

God, I know. I was juggling too many plates, spinning until I collapsed.

Our parents turned their backs, and instead of finding someone else to lean on, I made it my mission to prove I could do it all.

Show everyone I was strong enough. Capable enough. Worthy enough.

But who paid for that pride? My kids.

They raised themselves more than I’ll ever admit. Remi cooking boxed mac and cheese while I sat in hospital waiting rooms. Taylor practicing math alone at the table. August being passed from sitter to sitter, learning early how to adapt because I wasn’t there to steady him.

Every cavity I fill, every molar I crown today, feels like a parody. Like I can rebuild other people’s teeth but not the fracture lines running through my own family.

Debra snorts when I finally spit it all out, slamming my glass down harder than I should. She’s halfway through a plate of nachos while I’m nursing whiskey number three.

“You’re an idiot,” she says flatly, licking cheese off her thumb like she didn’t just call her boss stupid.

I blink at her. “Excuse me?”

She leans back in the booth, giving me that look—eyebrows arched, mouth twisted like she’s about to deliver gospel. “Maria, the hand you were dealt? Rain getting sick, your dad’s stroke, Lyle gone half the damn time? I can’t even imagine. I’m barely surviving with one kid. And you had four. Four.”

The number echoes, heavy, damning. My fingers tighten around the glass, and I stare down into the watered-down amber. “So you don’t… think less of me? Because I…”

“God, no.” Debra doesn’t even let me finish.

“People talk about abortion like women do it for fun. Like it’s a sport.

Like you woke up one morning and thought, you know what would spice up my week?

Terminating a pregnancy.” She shakes her head, disgust rolling off her.

“You had a choice. And you made the best one you could. Screw everybody else.”

The heat in my chest rises, not from the alcohol this time but from the knot that’s lived there for twenty years.

I swallow hard. “I think…” My voice cracks, and I try again.

“I think the reason I pushed everyone away when Rain got sick was because I was afraid. Afraid they’d say the same thing.

That it was my fault. That my daughter got cancer because of me—because of what I did. ”

“Fuck that,” Debra snaps, loud enough that the guy at the next table turns his head.

She doesn’t notice, doesn’t care. “The kid you were pregnant with could’ve been sick.

Could’ve had a disability. Could’ve had anything.

You’ll never know, and neither will anyone else.

But I’ll tell you one thing for damn sure—it wasn’t because of you.

Fuck that bitch of a mother-in-law you have. ”

The laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it, rough and shaky but real. I press a hand to my mouth, shaking my head. “You have such a way with words.”

She smirks, raising her nacho like a toast. “Yeah, well, lucky for you, my bullshit detector works overtime. And right now, it’s telling me you need another drink.”

Debra does what she always does—slaps sense into me with words blunt enough to bruise, then somehow stitches me back together with nachos and sarcasm. By the time my glass is empty, I actually feel lighter. Not whole, not fixed—but lighter.

Unfortunately, lighter also means tipsy. Which quickly turns into the floor tilting under me every time I try to stand.

Debra raises her brows as I sway. “You’re not driving.”

I throw my arms wide, wobbling dramatically. “Oh, but officer, I walk so straight.”

She rolls her eyes, already fishing my phone out of my purse. “I’m calling your husband.”

“Nooo,” I groan, grabbing at it too late. “He’ll say I’m a—” hiccup “—mess.”

Debra smirks. “You are a mess.” She presses the phone to her ear, ignoring me.

By the time Lyle walks into the bar, I’m slumped sideways in the booth, humming tunelessly while Debra tries to keep me upright. The moment I spot him, though—broad shoulders, smouldering smile. I straighten and point, grinning like a fool.

“There he isss,” I announce to the entire bar. “Mr. Captain Sexy himself.”

Debra chokes on her drink. Lyle freezes mid-step, colour rising in his cheeks as the nearest tables turn to look.

“Maria,” he mutters, jaw tight but his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile.

I lean over Debra, sing-songing, “Can’t help it—damn sexy, damn sexy—” until the words collapse into giggles.

He reaches us, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Sorry,” he tells Debra, hooking an arm around me to haul me gently to my feet.

Debra just smirks. “She’s your problem now, Captain Sexy.”

I cackle, clinging to his chest. “See? She agrees.”

Lyle huffs, shaking his head as he steers me toward the door. “Christ, Maria.” His voice is low, half-exasperated, but his arm never wavers—steady around my waist, warm against my back, carrying me out like I’m breakable even when I’m acting like a fool.

We walk in silence to the car, the night air cool against my flushed cheeks. He opens the passenger door, guiding me down gently, like I might shatter if he lets go too fast.

As he rounds the hood and slides into the driver’s seat, I blurt it out, small and slurred: “I’m sorry I’m such a mess.”

He exhales, not sharp, just steady. “You’re allowed.”

I smile sadly, turning my face toward the window so he won’t see my eyes sting. He reaches for the keys, but before he can turn the ignition, the words tumble out again, heavier this time, stripped of laughter.

“Why do you even want me, Lyle? You could always get someone younger, shinier, not such a disaster. The kids would probably choose her anyway. She’d be sweet and nice and… not their evil—”

“Stop.” His hand slams lightly against the steering wheel, not angry, just firm enough to cut through my spiral.

He turns toward me, his voice rough. “Stop, Maria. We are not divorcing. I am not leaving you. Don’t you get it?

I love you. And I’m not perfect—Christ, you of all people know that—but I’m yours. Always.”

I bite my lip hard, holding back the sob that threatens to claw its way up. No words come out, only silence.

He watches me for a moment, then covers my hand with his, warm and solid, anchoring me.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he says quietly, with that Captain’s steadiness he wears like a second skin. “We’re gonna go home. You’re gonna sleep this off. And tomorrow…” His thumb brushes over my knuckles. “Tomorrow you’re gonna tell me everything you’ve been protecting me from. All of it.”

I nod, but it’s shaky, hesitant, my throat thick with the truth I’ve buried for years.

He has no idea what he’s asking for.

None.