Page 23 of Open Secrets (Infidelity #5)

Maria — Present

“So… you’re coming with me?” I ask, confused, as Lyle starts packing way more than snacks for just me.

He doesn’t even look up, too immersed in stuffing a full-size bag of Doritos in the bag. “Well, I figured—the kids have their grandparents in their life again. We might as well take advantage.”

I squint at him. “Yesterday you were worried about them taking the kids for ice cream.”

He shrugs.

“They just met the kids yesterday, Lyle.”

“It’s not like they’re strangers,” he says, finally glancing up. “When they were little, they practically lived with them.”

I shrug, still uneasy. “Do you really think we should do that? It is Sunday.”

Now, don’t get me wrong—I love my kids. And they are well-behaved. Usually. But on Sundays? They turn into some kind of unholy union of feral raccoons and circus clowns.

He raises a brow. “Do you remember what my parents did?”

I smile. “In that case, let’s feed them sugar for breakfast.”

He laughs, shaking his head.

“I’m kidding,” I add quickly. “Your mom said she already made pancakes.”

His laughter fades as his eyes rest on me. “Still can’t believe you forgave her.”

I turn away, pretending to be deeply invested in scooping coffee grounds into the filter. “Well, she… you know.”

He shakes his head slowly. “You’re so weak.”

I throw my hands up. “She cornered me, okay? She was apologetic and crying and old and I just—” I pinch my face into a fake sob, mimicking her wobbling voice. “‘She said I could call her mom.’”

Lyle just stares at me, pity softening his features.

I snap, louder than I mean to, “Let me have this!”

He raises his hand in a don’t kill me gesture.

I narrow my eyes. “Relax.”

Clearly, he doesn’t value his life, because the next words out of his mouth are, “So… you gonna call my dad Dad too?”

I grab the nearest thing in reach—an orange from the fruit bowl—and whip it at his head. He ducks just in time, laughing.

“Not funny,” I say, crossing my arms. “I told your mom I’m not ready for that.”

The laughter dies a little, though the smile lingers. “Fair.”

I glance away, suddenly very interested in the steam rising from the coffee pot. “It was hard enough just forgiving her. That word— mom —it doesn’t… it doesn’t come easy for me.”

He reaches across the counter, hooks his index finger around mine, tugging gently until I finally glance at him. His voice drops, soft. “I know, baby.”

Before I can answer, a sharp honk blares from outside.

Lyle straightens, calling up the stairs with that parade-ground voice that still makes me jump. “Kids! Grandpa’s here!”

The ceiling shakes instantly with the thundering of feet.

One by one, they all pile out—August barely remembering to grab his backpack, Rain halfway down the steps before she yells, Wait, shoes! —and each of them tosses a lazy “bye” over their shoulders like it costs extra to say it properly.

Lyle just rolls his eyes and follows them out, shaking his head.

I finish packing while he takes longer than necessary outside, saying his goodbyes like he’s moving to another country instead of handing the kids off for a few hours.

I throw in a change of clothes for both of us—just in case.

Copperas Cove is little more than an hour away, and we both have work tomorrow, but still. Better to be prepared.

Still, I can’t help the creeping thought: this is all going to be a waste of time. My dad will refuse to see me. It’ll just be a wasted trip, another bruise on an already sore spot.

I’m hauling the bags to the front door when Lyle finally comes back in.

“What took so long?” I ask.

He shrugs, casual. “Just talking.”

I nod slowly. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, too quickly. “Everything’s fine.”

But his eyes dart away, and something in the set of his shoulders nags at me. He’s been acting strange since yesterday.

He nods toward the stairs. “I’m gonna get dressed while you finish your coffee.”

I lift the mug from the side table, watching him head up. The floorboards creak under his heavy steps.

Something is up.

Thankfully, we have a road trip for me to find out what’s going on.

Less than thirty minutes later, we’re on the highway. Since it’s Sunday, traffic’s light, the miles slipping by easy. I’m mid-note, belting along with the radio, when Lyle reaches forward and turns the volume down.

“Hey,” I protest.

He gives me a sidelong look. “I have to tell you something.”

I twist my mouth, suspicious. “Do you, or did you just not want to hear my beautiful voice?”

A small smile tugs at his lips. “As much as I love your singing, this is serious.”

That pulls me straighter in my seat. “What is it?”

He hesitates, his eyes flicking to me, then back to the road. “Do you remember when we… had that open marriage?”

I deadpan. “I vaguely recall.”

“Well,” he says slowly, “I wasn’t really all that good at it. I mean, I flirted, sure, but I didn’t really—what do the kids call it?—close the deal.”

“Okay…” I draw out, not sure where he’s going.

“Remember when I was on administrative duty in D.C.?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

He exhales. “Well, one night—”

Lyle – Three Years Ago – Walter Reed (Washington, D.C.), 2022

“You wanna get out of here?” asks the redhead who’s been eyeing me all night.

I let out a nervous laugh. “Uh, I should call my wife first. You know, check in.”

Her mouth snaps shut. “Your wife ?”

I raise my left hand, showing the ring. “Wife.”

Her face twists. “Bastard.” She pushes her chair back to leave, but I blurt, “Wait—it’s fine. She’s fine with it. We have an open marriage, so I can—”

“ Have sex with me? ” she yells, loud enough for half the bar to hear. “Fuck you.”

She storms off, leaving me at the table, staring into my drink and thinking, Yeah, I deserved that.

“That was hard to watch,” says a husky voice.

I glance up from my drink and wince. The bartender is leaning back against the counter, arms folded, a knowing smirk on her lips.

“You heard that, huh?”

She pushes off the counter and strolls closer, leaning on the polished wood just a few feet from me. Her perfume cuts through the tang of spilled beer.

“You had that girl eating out of the palm of your hand,” she teases. “And you just…” She lets the words trail off, eyebrows lifted.

I shrug, staring into the amber liquid in my glass. “It’s weird, okay? I mean, that girl was half my age.”

The bartender laughs softly. A throaty sound, practiced. “I guess that’s kind of sweet.”

I finally look at her, and it hits me how opposite she is from Maria.

Maria—petite, barely five-six, with dark hair that falls in waves, her figure soft and familiar, every curve burned into me after decades.

This woman—tall, long blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail, her frame sharp angles and long lines, like she could step straight off a runway.

She notices me staring, and her lips curve in a knowing smile. “CeCe,” she says, offering her hand over the bar.

“Lyle,” I say, shaking her hand.

And just like that, the night unspools. We talk. About nothing and everything. About duty stations, about dumb customers she’s served, about the beer list I can’t pronounce. She laughs too easily, and I let her.

Later, as she refills my glass, she says casually, “My shift ends in an hour.”

Something in her tone prickles. An opening. An invitation.

I check my watch, throat tight. “It’s late,” I say finally, and slide my stool back.

She tilts her head, that sly little smile never faltering. But she doesn’t follow me as I leave.

On the way back to my accommodations, I pull out my phone and hit Maria’s number.

She picks up on the second ring. “Hi stranger.”

I breathe out, watching my breath puff white in the cold. “Not for long, I’ll probably be home next week.”

“Oh. That’s great.” There’s a pause. Then, carefully, she adds, “I ran into your parents at Shapiro’s.”

I laugh, caught off guard. “What was that like?”

“Awkward,” she says quickly. “I got the hell out of there.”

Chuckling, I ask, “What were you even doing there anyway?”

But the laugh dies when silence answers me.

“…Oh.”

“Lyle,” she says gently, warning in her voice.

“Listen, I gotta go. I’m here.”

I hang up before she can press, shoving the phone into my pocket.

And then I just stand there. On the sidewalk. Staring at the dull lights of the barracks down the block.

I should go in. Sleep. Pretend this night never happened.

But my feet don’t move.

Not forward.

Not home.

After a long moment—too long—I turn around.

And start walking back toward the bar.

Maria — Present

“And that was the first night I spent with her,” Lyle finishes.

I purse my lips. “Not that I don’t appreciate this sudden and unwanted burst of information, but why are you telling me this now?”

He clears his throat. “Well… CeCe—”

“Oh, it has a name.”

“—CeCe and I had a kind of… friends-with-benefits situation,” he says quickly.

My glare snaps to him, sharp enough to cut steel.

He lifts his hands in surrender then grabs the staring wheel again. “I ended it a year ago. I swear. But now she’s pregnant and threatening to go to command and say it’s mine if I don’t pay her off.”

I take a deep breath, blowing it out through my nose. My fingers drum against my thigh. “And why do we care if she goes to command? Not like it’ll stand if it isn’t yours.”

“It’s not,” he says instantly. “I swear it’s not. But if command finds out I slept with someone else while being married—and officially on duty—they can pull my benefits. The pension, the insurance… everything.”

My stomach drops.

“We need that,” I whisper.

He nods grimly. “Especially since we’re gonna have a mortgage soon.”

“Let’s worry about one thing right now.” My voice comes out clipped, tight. “When did this CeCe make the threat?”

Lyle’s hands tighten on the wheel. “Yesterday.”

“Yesterday,” I repeat, my jaw locking.

He nods, guilty as a teenager caught sneaking in past curfew. “She… she came by the house.”

My teeth grind. “And where was I?”

“You were in the shower.”

I grip the handle so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack. “And how, exactly, did she even find the house?”

His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know ?”

He shakes his head quickly. “I never gave her the address. I swear, Maria. I don’t know how she found it.”

“Are you sure you didn’t let it slip?” I press, voice low and dangerous.

“Why would I?” he shoots back, eyes flashing with a mix of defensiveness and shame.

I shrug bitterly, turning toward the window. “We agreed—no relationships. But you clearly…” My throat closes around the rest, anger and betrayal twisting in my gut.

He tries to take my hand, but I swat him away.

“I’m sorry, okay? It wasn’t easy for me to just… pick up women. So I just—”

“Got a mistress instead,” I cut in, finding my voice.

“No,” he snaps quickly. “I took the easy way.”

“I bet you did,” I mutter, staring out the window. The highway blurs past, but my thoughts are louder. “And how many other women do you have?”

“None,” he says, firm. “I didn’t sleep with anyone other than her.”

I look back at him, searching his face, trying to read the lines around his mouth, the tension in his jaw. I can’t decide if that makes it better or worse.

“That’s supposed to help me how?” I ask, my tone sharp. “Am I supposed to be relieved that you only fucked one woman? That you were faithful to your mistress ?”

His head jerks, his knuckles tightening on the steering wheel. “That’s not what this was—”

I laugh, short and bitter. “So tell me, Lyle. Should I be angry that you fucked a woman more times than you’ve fucked me in the last three years? Or should I be happy you didn’t screw twenty-year-olds like I always thought you did?”

His mouth opens—closes. No words. Just silence thick enough to choke on.

“You went out with men too,” he fires back finally.

“Yes,” I snap. My chest tightens, my throat raw. “Twice. I slept with two men, and both times I hated myself. Because the whole time, I was thinking of you .”

The words rip out of me, jagged and hot, and suddenly I can’t breathe in this car. My eyes flick to the green sign up ahead—Rest Area 1 Mile.

“Take the exit,” I say, my voice shaking.

Lyle glances at me, brows furrowing. “Maria, we’re nearly there—”

“ Take the fucking exit! ” I scream, the sound tearing through my chest, startling even me.

His hands jerk on the wheel, and for a second, I think he’ll argue. But then the blinker clicks, loud as a hammer, and the car veers toward the ramp.

The second Lyle stops the car, I shove the door open so hard it rattles on its hinges and storm toward the bathroom.

I need a fucking minute.

A minute away from the claustrophobic silence of the car. Away from him. Away from the images flashing in my head—Lyle’s hands on someone else’s skin, his mouth pressed to a stranger’s throat, him giving pieces of himself that were supposed to be mine.

The cold air slaps my face, but it doesn’t cool the heat boiling under my skin. My legs carry me faster than I mean, gravel crunching under my shoes as I push the heavy bathroom door open.

Inside, it smells of bleach and air freshener, the hum of the overhead fan filling the emptiness. I grip the sink with both hands, staring at the cracked mirror.

My reflection looks wild—eyes glassy, cheeks blotched, breath sawing in and out.

I squeeze my eyes shut, whispering to no one, “God, I’m so fucking stupid.”