Page 19 of Open Secrets (Infidelity #5)

Maria — Present

I wake up to someone staring at me.

Turning sideways, I fold my hands under my cheek. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Lyle says, leaning in to kiss me.

I try to deepen it, but he pulls away with a laugh. “Stop. The kids are gonna be home soon, and we still have to talk.”

I blow out a breath. “Fine.”

He sits up, sheets pooling around his waist. I do the same, tugging the blanket over my chest. His eyes follow the way I wrap it tight, and his mouth twists into something sad—like he knows why.

“Probably a good idea,” he says quietly.

I roll my eyes. I’m a woman in my forties, and he still looks at me like I’m eighteen.

I take a deep breath. “Okay.”

He rubs the back of his head. “I know I said I’d quit, but—”

“Nope.” I cut him off sharp. “Nope.”

I swing off the bed, muttering how stupid I am for falling for it. I yank the sheet off his legs on purpose. He scrambles for a pillow to cover himself like I haven’t seen him naked a thousand times.

“Fell for what?” he asks, eyebrows knitting.

I snatch his shirt from the floor, pointing it at him like an accusation. “You.”

Balancing the sheet under my chin, I wrestle the shirt over my head. Yes, I look ridiculous, but I don’t care. My voice goes mocking, deep like his: “‘I’ll quit. I love you more.’”

He gets up, pillow forgotten now. “I do love you.” His voice is steady, not defensive. “I just meant I should retire instead of quit.”

I freeze halfway through tugging the shirt down. “Oh.”

“Yeah. I’ve got twenty-five years of service,” he says, the next part coming out sad, softer than he probably meant. “Have a little faith.”

The words hang there. I let the sheet drop and shrug. “Sorry.”

I turn away before I can see his face, crossing to the closet. My fingers brush over hangers until I land on an old pair of jeans. I pull them out, step into them, zipping up with jerky movements.

Over my shoulder, I toss it out flat: “Can’t believe we wasted money on that therapist.”

Behind me, I hear Lyle stammer, his voice catching like he wasn’t ready for that hit. “So—you don’t want to go back?”

I tug on a clean shirt, my back still to him. “Why would we?”

The air goes quiet again, heavy. I know he’s still sitting there, probably naked, trying to find the right words.

I step out of the closet and toss his shirt at him. “What?”

He takes it hesitantly, pulling it on, then reaches for his boxers. “It’s just… all the stuff we talked about, it’s still there. You’re still struggling with guilt, still doing everything for everyone. I just think you should—”

I narrow my eyes. “She said you had issues too.”

He nods. “I do. And I’m gonna go back to the Army therapist. He really helped me with survivor’s guilt before.”

I put a hand on his bicep, a quick squeeze. “I’m happy for you. It’s just—I don’t need to talk to anyone.”

I turn to walk away when his voice stops me. “That’s what Markus said. Now he has a DUI, a divorce, and court-mandated therapy.”

I pause but don’t turn around.

“Fine,” I mutter. “You wanna throw money at a therapist? I’ll still see her.”

The floor creaks as he comes closer. His hands slide gently onto my biceps, and he presses a kiss to my cheek. “Thank you.”

I blow out a breath. “Whatever,” I say, and walk out.

I head downstairs and get started on lunch. The kids won’t be home for another hour, but I’m starving. That’s what happens when you spend all morning having sex.

I huff out a laugh. I’d love to order pizza, but we don’t have money to throw around—especially now that we’re spending it on a therapist we don’t need.

Lyle is a good husband. When he’s here. He’s attentive, he takes me on dates, he’s present with the kids. The only complaint I ever had was that he was never around, always running off. But now… now I don’t have that.

My issues? They’re normal. Everybody’s got issues. Tell me one person who doesn’t.

So my mother left me. And my father. And my in-laws. And my husband.

But that last part isn’t true anymore.

So, I’m fine.

I’m so busy defending myself in my head that I don’t notice the smell until it’s too late. The eggs are blackened, curling in the pan, smoke snaking toward the ceiling.

I burned breakfast-for-lunch.

I just stand there, staring at the ruin while the smoke fizzles out in little angry wisps.

On cue, the fire alarm shrieks to life, drilling through my skull.

With a cry of frustration, I grab the pan and hurl it at the counter. It clatters hard, eggs splattering across the tile, the sound barely audible in the already too-loud kitchen.

Footsteps thud down the stairs. I lean against the counter, hanging my head.

“So… Dr. Nina.” I say looking up.

Lyle stands in the doorway, cautious but steady. “I already called. She can pencil you in tomorrow before lunch.”

I nod once. “Good.”

Without another word, he steps around me and crouches by the mess. He moves quietly, picking up the pan, soaking it in the sink like this is just another chore.

I glance back over my shoulder. “You don’t have to do that.”

He sets the pan in the sink, wipes his hands on a dish towel, and squeezes my shoulder. “I do.” Then he bends down again, paper towels in hand, scrubbing at the floor.

I watch him scrub the floor, the sound of paper towels dragging against tile filling the kitchen. By the time the mess is gone, the air smells like smoke and lemons from the spray bottle, but not like eggs anymore.

This time Lyle makes the food. We eat in silence, then clean up in silence. The clink of plates, the scrape of silverware, the rush of water in the sink—none of it fills the space between us.

It’s only broken when the front door slams.

Remi walks in, shoulders tense, hair falling into his eyes. He kicks the door shut behind him, hard enough to rattle the frame.

“Ms. James took the others for food,” he mutters.

I nod, wiping my hands on a dish towel. “Why didn’t you go?”

He shrugs, dropping his backpack with a heavy thud. “I wanted to know.”

Lyle frowns. “Know what?”

“If you’re getting a divorce.”

My mouth drops open. The words knock the breath right out of me. “Remi—”

“We are not getting a divorce,” Lyle cuts in quickly, firmly. “Who told you that?”

Remi shrugs again, but his jaw’s tight. “Nobody. You guys have been fighting a lot, and… well.” He glances between us, restless, his voice softer now. “You’re both home. That never happens.”

My chest tightens. “Remi—no. We’re not getting a divorce.”

“Then why does it feel like it?” His voice cracks, sharp and young all at once. “You’re either fighting or not talking at all. You think we don’t notice, but we do.”

“Remi,” Lyle says, stepping forward, voice steady. “I promise you—this is not going to happen. We are not leaving you, or each other.”

Remi laughs, short and bitter. “Yeah. Promises. Like you promised you’d be home more? You promised a lot of shit.”

Lyle stiffens. “Watch it.”

But Remi barrels on, eyes blazing. “You weren’t here! Mom was. Always Mom. And you say words, Dad, but they don’t mean anything. You’ll be gone again as soon as the Army whistles.”

“That’s not fair,” I cut in, trying to soften it, trying to shield Lyle. “He’s here now, Remi. He’s trying.”

Remi turns on me, his voice sharp. “And that’s enough for you? He disappears, and then he shows up with some promise, and that’s supposed to make everything okay?”

My throat tightens. I don’t have an answer he’ll believe.

“Remi,” Lyle says, fists clenching at his sides. His voice is low, rough. “I’m not going anywhere. That’s a promise I will keep.”

Remi’s expression falters—just a flicker, like he wants to believe—but then he scoffs again. “Right. Just like all the other promises.”

“I mean it,” Lyle insists, stepping closer. “I’m done. I’m retiring.”

That makes Remi freeze. His eyes widen, just slightly. “Retiring?”

“Yes.” Lyle nods once, firm. “I’m done with deployments. I’m done leaving. I want to be here—with your mom, with you, with all of you.”

For a second, hope flashes in Remi’s face, raw and vulnerable. But it flickers out just as fast. He shakes his head. “I don’t believe you.”

“Why not?” Lyle asks, almost desperate now.

“Because you always say whatever people want to hear!” Remi snaps, his voice cracking. “You said it to Mom, and she believed you. You said it to us, and we believed you. And every time—you left. Every time!”

“That’s not true,” Lyle fires back. “I didn’t leave because I wanted to, Remi—I left because it was my duty.”

“Duty?” Remi’s laugh is jagged, sharp. “What about your duty to us? To your family? Or does that not count?”

Lyle’s face hardens. “It does count.”

“Then why are we always last?” Remi yells. His voice breaks, but he doesn’t back down. “Why do we always get left behind?”

I step in quickly, my hands raised like I can calm a storm. “Enough. Both of you—”

But neither is listening.

“I’m telling you,” Lyle says, his voice almost shaking, “I’m retiring. That’s it. No more deployments.”

Remi’s eyes narrow, his hope bleeding into anger. “And I’m supposed to just believe that?”

“Yes!” Lyle bursts out. “Because it’s the truth!”

Remi lets out a breathless laugh, but it sounds more like a sob. “You don’t get it. You’ve been gone so long, I don’t even know who you are. And you don’t know me either.”

Lyle’s mouth opens—closes. The words die on his tongue.

I reach for my son. “Remi, sweetheart—”

But he shoulders past me, picking up his backpack. He storms toward the stairs, his voice raw and loud: “We’ll see.”

The thud of his door slamming upstairs shakes the house.

Silence rushes back in, heavier than before.

I turn to Lyle. “He didn’t mean that. He’s just—”

“Right,” Lyle cuts in.

He smiles, but it’s the kind that twists—sad, self-deprecating. “I can’t believe I haven’t seen it before. He hates me.”

“No,” I say quickly, my voice breaking sharper than I intend. “He doesn’t. He’s just… he doesn’t know you.”

Lyle looks away, jaw tight, like the words sting worse than comfort.

I step closer and take his hand, pressing it between both of mine. “But he will. Now that you’ll be home, he’ll know you. And so will Taylor, and Rain, and August. They’ll all know you.”

His thumb brushes mine, uncertain but holding on like maybe he wants to believe me.

Lyle takes a deep breath, his shoulders squaring like he’s bracing for something heavy. “I should get on that. I have no idea what the first step even is for retiring.”

“Why don’t you drop by your old commander’s house?” I say. “Didn’t he retire?”

“Yeah.” Lyle nods, thoughtful. “I’ll do that.”

I watch him head toward the stairs, already shifting into motion, and I press my hand to the counter to steady myself.

Because if he means it—if he really does this—then everything changes.