Page 8 of Open Secrets (Infidelity #5)

Maria — Present

Therapy. He wants to go to therapy.

Like talking to a shrink about my problems is going to magically fix them. Like sitting in a room with some stranger while I spill my guts is going to erase years of resentment, fear, and exhaustion.

I know exactly what Lyle’s thinking. He’ll use the therapist as proof he’s trying, as if showing up with his Captain face on will make me believe things are going to change—while nothing actually does. He’s so predictable it hurts.

I push the thought down as I pull into the clinic lot.

By the time I get out of the car and walk through those glass doors, I’ve already tucked Maria the wife and Maria the mother away.

Here, I’m Dr. Connelly. Not someone’s long-suffering partner, not the woman who fell in love with a soldier and built her whole damn life around his schedule. Here, I’m me.

A doctor. A professional. Someone respected.

I’m not crazy. I know dentists don’t exactly save lives—not in the heart-thumping, ER-drama sense. But we change them. From kids with crooked teeth to wives with spineless husbands. From nervous teenagers too embarrassed to smile to hardened men grinding down molars from stress.

And addicts. Meth mouths. Those were always the hardest to stomach and, strangely, the most satisfying. Teeth rotted to nubs, gums bleeding, whole faces collapsed from neglect. Fixing them was like giving someone a second chance. I’ve seen the before-and-afters. It matters.

Back when money was tight, I used to work part-time at the state prison.

Hours were brutal, pay was adequate, but the need was there.

Prisoners came in with mouths so wrecked you could barely look without wincing.

I treated them anyway. I had a lot of jobs then.

Dentist. Mom. Nurse. Caretaker. Juggler of every ball Lyle wasn’t home to catch.

And I did it. Somehow, I always did it.

That’s the thing Lyle doesn’t see: therapy isn’t going to teach me how to hold the world on my shoulders. I’ve been doing that all along.

The receptionist looks up when I walk in, relief flashing in her eyes like always. “Morning, Dr. Connelly. Your first patient’s already in the chair. Nine-year-old. Mom says he hasn’t slept in two nights.”

I nod, setting my bag down, gloves already in hand. The boy squirms in the chair, clutching the armrests like they’re lifelines. His mom hovers in the corner, nerves written across her face.

“Hey, buddy,” I say, keeping my voice warm but steady. “I’m Dr. Connelly. Wanna tell me what’s been bothering you?”

He shakes his head, lips pressed tight.

“That’s alright. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.” I crouch beside him, not too close. “But I’ll let you in on a secret. I don’t just fix teeth. I fix pain. And I bet you’re hurting.”

His eyes flick to me, wary but curious. After a moment, he nods.

I smile, pulling the overhead light down. “Good. Then let’s see what we’re working with.”

It’s a cavity, bad enough that I’m surprised he lasted two nights. The kind that makes grown men cry, let alone a kid. But it’s fixable. Always fixable.

As I work, the boy’s shoulders slowly loosen. His mom lets out a breath she probably didn’t know she was holding. I talk them both through it—every step, every sound, every sensation.

By the time I’m done, he’s not gripping the armrests anymore. He even smiles, shy but proud, when I hand him the mirror.

“There,” I say, straightening. “Better?”

He nods, then mumbles a soft, “Thank you.”

The mom mouths it too, gratitude spilling out in silence.

This. This is why I do it. This is the part of my life that works.

Here, I’m Dr. Connelly. Here, I’m competent. Steady. Needed.

Not crazy. Not hysterical. Not someone who needs fixing.

“Drinks after shift?” Debra asks as we’re wiping down the last tray, her brows raised in a way that’s more statement than question. She’s been with me long enough to know my tells.

I hesitate, the word no still instinctive on my tongue. For years, I turned down every offer. Always rushing home, always saving my scraps of energy for the house, the kids, Lyle. But now? Now I say yes. Because I need it.

The bar isn’t anything special—just a place close enough to stumble home from, where the bartenders know not to ask questions. We go there often enough that the low lighting and worn booths feel familiar. Safe.

It’s kind of stupid, really. Complaining about your healthy, alive husband when most of your friends lost theirs.

Being an Army wife isn’t all casseroles and tear-stained goodbyes on the tarmac.

It’s grit. It’s waking up at three a.m. to sick kids, bills overdue, a house falling apart, and still putting on a steady face so he doesn’t worry overseas.

We might not be out there with rifles, but we’re here—holding the line in our own way. Making sure our men come home to something worth coming home to.

Not that it feels fair to call it “our men” anymore.

Because there are women too, serving just as hard.

But I’ve noticed something: most of them are single.

Or their husbands don’t last. Because there’s something about men, about the way they’re built, that doesn’t sit right with this life.

They don’t want to be the one left behind. They don’t want to be the caretaker.

So it’s us. The wives. Shouldering it all. Laughing when we should be crying. Drinking cheap wine in kitchens while we swap stories, never saying the darkest part out loud: that sometimes, we wonder if it would be easier if we just left.

I swirl the amber in my glass and sip, the burn steadying me.

Here, with Debra, I can pretend for one hour that I’m normal.

“Okay,” she says, leaning in like she’s about to deliver state secrets. “So I went on this date last night, right? Super cute guy, tall, polite, opens the door for me, even paid for dinner. Real gentleman.”

I raise a brow, waiting. With Debra, there’s always a but.

“But at the end of the night…” She swirls her drink dramatically. “We’re kissing in his car, it’s all good, all smooth—then he just… finishes.”

I nearly spit my drink across the table. “Finished?”

“Finished.” She does this thing with her eyebrows—arched high, knowing—and that tells me exactly what he finished.

“Ugh,” I groan, pressing my palm to my forehead. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” She downs half her glass in one go. “Be happy you’re married and don’t have to deal with this crap. I mean—you deal with it, sure—but by choice. Not out of desperation.”

Her words sting sharper than she means them to. I look down at my drink, tracing the rim with my finger.

Debra winces, sighs. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I… Are you okay?”

I nod, though it feels like a lie. “I talked to Lyle about…” The words get stuck, heavy, like they’re not meant for anyone else’s ears.

Her eyes widen. “You did? Finally. What’d he say?”

I tilt my head, studying the ice melting in my glass. “He’s tired of the whole thing too, apparently. Said he was fine with ending it—the open marriage.”

“But…” she prompts, voice soft but insistent.

I take a long sip, then set the glass down harder than I mean to. “But when I exploded about it, it didn’t stop there. It… expanded. To everything else I’ve been holding in.”

Debra nods slowly, her mouth tugging into something halfway between sympathy and pride. “Good. You’ve been bottling it up too long.”

My throat tightens, voice breaking even as I keep it low. “I told him I can’t do it anymore. I can’t do this alone.”

The words hang between us, heavy as lead. For once, Debra doesn’t fill the silence with a joke. She just watches me, eyes steady, waiting.

Finally, she asks, “What’d he say?”

“Nothing really.” I huff out a humourless laugh, staring into my glass, wishing I could chug it down. “He wants to go to therapy.”

Debra blinks, surprised. “Wow.” She nods after a beat, softer. “I hope it works out.”

“Me too.” The words scrape out, fragile. Then I wave my hand, needing to break the weight of it. “This is too real. Let’s talk about something else. How’s your daughter?”

Debra brightens, grateful for the pivot. “She’s good. Actually—” she laughs, rolling her eyes “—she thinks I know the Tooth Fairy.”

I can’t help smiling. “Really?”

“Super serious,” Debra says, leaning in, her voice dropping conspiratorial. “Apparently, I’ve got connections.”

I laugh, the sound lighter than I feel. “Well, you do have that face.”

She throws her napkin at me, and just like that, the mood shifts. We let it. We always do.

After another round of small talk, I check my watch, guilt gnawing already. “I should head home.”

Debra nods, squeezes my hand across the table before I can pull back. “You’re tougher than you think, Maria.”

I give her a smile I don’t quite feel, grab my coat, and step out into the night. The air is cold, sharp, carrying me back to the life waiting on the other side of it.

I head home looking forward to some peace and quiet, while dreading another fight.

The kids are already picked up—our usual arrangement.

A single mom from Remi’s class keeps them until six.

We have dinner at her place sometimes, I help clean up, she gets a little extra income and company, and I get someone I actually trust to watch my kids.

It works out. Whenever Lyle is home, he picks them up early, five o’clock sharp.

When I pull up, my spot in the driveway is gone—taken by not one but two extra cars. It takes me a while to find parking down the street, and by the time I finally push through the front door, I’m already pissed.

The sound of cackling laughter cuts straight through me. I know exactly whose laugh that is.

Three heads swivel in my direction, and only one belongs to someone I even remotely like. And “like” is debatable right now.

“Hey,” Anna says, perched on my kitchen counter like she owns the place.