Page 4 of Playing Dirty

One he could screw on his office desk during lunch.

Marrying his mistress within three months of his divorce finalizing doesn’t mean they’re in love. It looks like a desperate man’s attempt to save face after destroying his family. Or, more likely, to make sure he isn’t alone for the rest of his miserable life.

So, while I know Holden and Phoenix are probably right—my best option is to look at this as a fresh start—there isn’t a fiber of my being wanting to give it a chance.

“How long do you think I can sit out here before one of them notices?” I mutter absently, my fingers fiddling with the stitching on the steering wheel.

“First major holiday as afamily? Less than five minutes,” Holden supplies.

Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of.

I release a long, drawn-out sigh. “Guess that means I better head in.”

“Call us if you need us, okay?” Phoenix says, to which Holden tacks on a quick, “Yeah, absolutely.”

It’s a nice sentiment, and one I appreciate, but I’ve got no intention of ruining anyone else’s Thanksgiving with my family drama.

“I’ll be fine. I’m probably just making it into something bigger than it is.”

Both of them are silent, and at first I think we’ve been disconnected. But then Holden softly utters, “It’s okay for you to lean on us, man.”

A knot lodges itself in my throat at the gentle sincerity, and despite swallowing it down, my reply still comes out slathered with choked emotion. “I know. Thanks.”

With that, I’m quick to end the call. If I don’t, there’s a damn good chance I’ll pull my Bronco back onto the street and drive all the way back to Chicago. Or worse, succumb to all the emotions rampaging through my body while I’m still on the phone with the two of them.

All of my friends—not just Holden and Phoenix—have witnessed just how deeply my parents divorce has affected me, just like they’ve proven themselves as confidants through it. But while they can empathize all they want, they still don’t understand it.

How can they, when they haven’t gone through it themselves?

They haven’t watched their mother become a fragment of the person she used to be or slowly lost all respect for the man who raised them. They haven’t been forced into the middle of messy, painful litigation while two people who used to love each other become hateful, cruel, and petty.

The only one of my friends who’s gone through this is Camden…but not even he understands, since he was just a kid when all the bad shit went down.

I’m on my own with this, and it fucking sucks.

Releasing a long groan, I scrub my palm over my face and then shove open the driver’s door. My feet may as well be weighed down by cinderblocks as I approach my family home, and I’m barely halfway up the sidewalk when the front door swings open.

While I’ve done my best to prepare for this, the reality of my father’s assistant standing in the threshold where my mother should be makes my stomach revolt. Add in her chipper greeting and sugar-sweet smile on her maroon-painted lips, and I wonder if I’ll even be able to eat a thing at dinner.

“Theo! Oh my goodness, I’m so happy to see you!”

That makes one of us, Carla.

I scan my gaze over the length of her while I climb up the porch steps, and though I don’t agree with my father’s actions, I can see the allure she holds. She’s beautiful, but in a way entirely different from Mom.

Where my mother gives the effortless kind of pretty, even if she’s in jeans and a t-shirt, Carla is more the type to be…done up.Maybe it comes with being an executive assistant, but I don’t see the reason why she’s curled her dark hair or done her makeup or is wearing this sweater dress and heels when none of us are leaving the house.

My attention snags on her feet, and a strange little fit of rage bolts through me.

We never wear shoes in the house.

“Here, come in before you catch a chill,” she says, moving out of the way for me to enter.

“Thanks,” I mutter dryly.

Not bothering to paint a smile on, I slip past her through the doorway and make a point to toe my shoes off in the foyer. If she notices, she doesn’t mention it. She’s too busy chattering at me, asking about my drive, how the semester is going, and generally just trying too hard.

“Anyway, dinner should be ready in twenty if you want to drop your bags upstairs and settle in,” she quips, oblivious to my internal musing. “And if you need to freshen up or anything, the towels are in the linen closet next to the bathroom.”