Page 5 of Open Secrets (Infidelity #5)

I stayed seated, elbows on my knees, staring at the ugly tile floor like it was MTV. Maria had been back there half an hour already. Half an hour of me doing nothing but sitting here, useless.

I kept telling myself I didn’t want kids.

Not now. Not when I finally got to breathe for the first time in my life.

I was nineteen. I should have been out with friends, figuring myself out, screwing up in ways that didn’t ruin lives.

Not stuck in some small town with a baby I couldn’t raise.

Not tied down when I was barely learning what freedom felt like.

But knowing that and sitting here while she was in there? Two different things.

For years, I thought freedom meant getting out from under my parents.

Mom homeschooling us, keeping us on this tight leash like the world was out to get us.

Anna hated it worse than I did, but at least she pushed back.

I just nodded along, stayed quiet, memorized Bible verses, did my drills at the kitchen table.

Then we moved to Gatesville, and suddenly I was sixteen and getting dropped into a real school for the first time.

It was like stepping into sunlight after years in a locked room. Loud hallways, football games, kids who didn’t look at me like I was the freak that never left the house. And most important, Maria.

And yes, it was still strict at home. Dad ran the place like a base, even when he wasn’t on one. He barked orders instead of asking questions, and I followed because that’s what you did. Stand tall, speak clear, no excuses. Freedom was never mine.

Now I finally had it. I could drink when I wanted, drive where I wanted, leave town without anyone checking in.

I had boot camp on the horizon, a future laid out in front of me that was mine to own.

I was finally catching up on being a teenager—staying out too late, blasting music, kissing girls I shouldn’t.

It felt reckless and messy, and it felt good.

So yeah, I didn’t want kids. I wasn’t ready to hold something that depended on me for air, not when I barely knew what to do with my own.

Still—my leg bounced against the chair, and my stomach twisted. Because while I sat here trying to convince myself we were too young, Maria was the one actually doing it. She was the one in there, not me. And that made me feel like shit.

I kept thinking about the look on her face when she told me.

The way her voice shook, like she already knew what she had to do, like she’d made peace with it.

I should have said more. Should have done something.

Instead, I was stuck out here, sweating through my shirt, trying not to imagine what was happening past those doors.

It was messed up. I was relieved she didn’t want to keep it—relieved and grateful and scared out of my damn mind. But there was a part of me that hated myself for feeling that way.

So I sat, useless, hands knotted together, waiting.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the door opened and the same nurse who took Maria in stepped out.

“Mr. Connelly?”

I nodded, throat dry.

“Ms. Silva is done with the procedure. She’s in recovery, if you’d like to see her.”

I nodded again, pushing up too fast from the chair, legs stiff from sitting so long. Recovery. Of course there was recovery. What the hell did I think—that she’d just walk out after… after it happened? Idiot.

I followed the nurse down a short hall, the antiseptic smell sharp enough to burn. She pushed a curtain aside, and there she was. Maria.

She was in a gown, pale against the white sheets, hair fanned messy on the pillow. My chest pulled tight at the sight of her like that, so small, so still.

“Hey,” I said, my voice low, careful, like if I spoke too loud I’d break her.

Her eyes fluttered open, heavy, and she whispered, “Hey.”

I eased into the small chair beside her bed, every muscle stiff with the effort not to shake. “How you feeling?”

She blinked slow, words slurred with exhaustion. “I’m fine.” Her head lolled slightly, voice drifting. “Don’t you have to go?”

I shook my head, leaning forward. “Told you I’d stay. Besides, I told them I have a family emergency. What are they gonna do—kick me out?”

Her mouth tugged into something almost like a smile, weak and fading. “You can go, Lyle. It’s done.”

The words cut sharper than they should. I reached for her hand, cold against my palms, and wrapped it between both of mine. I rubbed gently, trying to coax warmth back into her fingers, into her skin.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I told her, steady this time, like I was swearing it.

She just smiled, faint and tired, like she didn’t believe me.

Two hours later, I was still there. Maria had come out of the drugged haze about an hour ago, sharper now, though she kept pretending she was fine. The nurse said she could get dressed, so I waited outside the curtain, listening to the soft rustle of clothes.

The curtain slid back, and Maria stepped out, back in her own shirt and jeans, pale but standing. “I’m ready,” she said quietly.

I nodded, slipping an arm out automatically. She tried to resist, shaking her head, but her body swayed, and I held on anyway. Eventually she gave in, leaning into me as we walked.

Before we left, I fished her keys out of her purse, not even asking. Taking off my jacket, I draped it over her shoulders, bundling her up. How she thought she was going to stay warm in that thin shirt, I’d never know. She let me fuss with the collar, too tired to argue.

Then I glanced through the glass doors and stopped cold.

A crowd. Not just the jackass I punched earlier—he’d called reinforcements. A wall of signs and angry faces waited outside, ready to spit fire at her the second she stepped into daylight.

“Dammit,” I muttered. My fists tightened, aching for another swing, but not with Maria like this. Not today.

The receptionist barely looked up, her tone bored, practiced. “We have a back door. You can exit through the store next door.”

Relief hit, sharp and fast. I exhaled, muttering a quiet “Thanks.”

I’d punch my way through if I had to, but Maria didn’t need that—not now.

Guiding her gently, I steered us toward the side hallway, every step braced against the urge to turn back and finish what I started.

The way they stood there with their signs and their mouths open, shouting words they’d forget as soon as they drove home.

People like that made me sick.

What right did they have to tell Maria—or anyone—what to do with their own body?

They didn’t know her. They didn’t know us.

What the hell did they think they’d accomplish, screaming in someone’s face as she walked out of a clinic?

That she’d suddenly change her mind, decide to keep it because some stranger spit Bible verses at her?

And then what?

Would they pool their money together to pay for diapers, doctor visits, rent? Would they give up their Saturday mornings to babysit so she could finish school? Would they show up at midnight when the baby wouldn’t stop crying and she was dead on her feet?

No. They wouldn’t do a damn thing.

Truth was, if half of them ever found themselves in the same situation, they’d be in here too. Begging for help. Signing the same papers. Hiding behind the same curtain.

Motherfuckers.

I squeezed Maria’s hand tighter, guiding her toward the exit the receptionist had pointed out. She didn’t need their judgment. She didn’t need their noise. What she needed was to get out of here with her head up, and I’d make damn sure that happened.

The back door creaked open into a narrow alley, the cold air biting hard enough to make Maria shiver under my jacket.

Garbage bins lined the wall, lids askew, the sharp smell of rot cutting through the antiseptic still clinging to my nose.

We moved slow, her arm looped through mine, her weight leaning just enough that I could feel how much she was holding back.

A battered sign pointed left—Alternative Exit—and for once I wanted to thank whoever put it there. Thank fuck people like this existed, people who made sure there was another way out.

We followed it into the side door of a store, fluorescent lights humming overhead. No one stopped us. The clerks kept folding jeans, adjusting mannequins, pretending they didn’t notice Maria’s pale face or the way I was holding her steady. That quiet mercy was the kindest thing I’d seen all day.

The front doors slid open with a hiss, and through the glass I caught the side of the crowd. Signs raised. Voices sharp, battering the store walls as if sound could seep through concrete. From a distance, to anyone watching, we were just a couple who ducked in to shop. Nothing more.

I guided her to the passenger side of the car, easing her down into the seat like she was made of glass.

She settled in, tucking my jacket tighter around herself, and I jogged around to the driver’s side, my breath puffing white in the February cold.

God, Austin in winter cut deep when you weren’t ready for it.

The engine rumbled alive, and I pulled us out onto the street, putting distance between us and the noise. Maria sighed, her forehead leaning against the window, her voice barely above a whisper.

“What about your car?”

I gripped the wheel, hesitant. “I… uh. I sold the Ford.”

The words felt heavier than they should. That car had been a piece of junk, sure—smoked every time I turned the key, stranded us more than once. But it was ours. The place where we learned its quirks, laughed at its tantrums. A thing stitched into our memories whether we wanted it or not.

“The engine caught fire,” I added when she didn’t look at me. “There was no fixing it.”

“I get it,” she murmured, her voice so small it barely filled the space between us. “It was old.”

Silence stretched, heavy. I couldn’t stand it.

“I took the bus,” I said, filling the space with words that sounded thinner than I wanted them to.

“I thought about going to your dorm, but I had this feeling. And then I saw your car when I was about a block out—that’s why it took me so long to get to you.

” I glanced at her, then back at the road.

“I… I tried to call you, but your phone—”

Her lips pressed together, her eyes still on the glass. “I threw it.”

I blinked. “Threw it?”

“At the wall,” she said flatly. “When the test showed two lines.”

The words sliced clean, no hesitation, and I felt them settle deep in my chest.

I stayed quiet after that, the weight of her words filling the car heavier than the morning traffic outside. The drive back to campus blurred.

By the time I pulled into the lot, the place was filled students already coming back from class. I stayed still for a second, staring through the windshield like maybe if I didn’t move, time would stop too.

I reached for the handle, but Maria’s hand caught my forearm. Her fingers were light, trembling.

“It’s girls only,” she said softly.

“Oh.” The word stuck. “I should get going anyway.”

She nodded, blinking fast like her eyes were burning. “Thank you… for being there for me. Most guys would’ve… anyway. Thanks.”

She swallowed hard, then rushed on before I could answer. “I know you’re used to being with… girls now. But I just—what happened at Christmas meant something to me.”

My throat tightened.

“And I don’t think I can do the whole casual sex thing. Not with you.”

I found my voice, rough and low. “It means something to me too. I’m just… not ready for anything serious. Not yet.”

She nodded like she already knew. “So, I guess this is goodbye.”

Her hand slipped from my arm, and she reached for the door handle. Something in me panicked at the finality of it, so before she could leave, I said, “Keys.”

She blinked, confused, but held out her hand. I dropped the set into her palm.

She stared at them, realizing instantly they weren’t hers.

The Ford’s keys. What was left of them, anyway.

The cheap, worn fob was scratched, but the thing that mattered was still there—the keychain.

A little silver charm we picked up senior year, a dumb trinket from a roadside stand outside Waco.

She’d hung it on the rearview mirror, said it made the car ours.

“It’s still with me,” I said, watching her fingers close around it. “Even if the car’s gone.”

Her eyes glistened, lips parting like she wanted to speak, but nothing came.

For a second, the silence between us felt like it could crack wide open and swallow me whole.

Maria closed her palm around the keys, holding tight like she was trapping the memories inside. Her shoulders lifted with a shaky breath, and then, before I could brace myself, she leaned across the console.

Her lips brushed mine—soft, fleeting, not the wild kind of kiss we’d shared before but something gentler, heavier. A promise and a farewell wrapped in one breath.

When she pulled back, her eyes lingered on me, searching, memorizing.

“Bye, Lyle,” she whispered.

My throat burned, but I managed it back, quiet. “Bye, Maria.”