“Yes.”
“And you’re not . . . sleeping . . . with her?”
“No. She’s the girlfriend of Chris Steir, my teammate.”
“But you two looked so cozy.”
“We’re friends, Sarah. We talk.”
“But that’s even worse because you don’t talk to me! You don’t have conversations with me.”
“We used to, before you began acting paranoid and treating me like a criminal again, while you’re the virtuous cop, determined to play parole officer.”
She glared at him, arms folded across her chest. “I think I’ve seen that musical and you’re no Jean Valjean.”
He just stared back at her, expressionless. “What do you want, Sarah? Because I’m not doing this anymore. Won’t be your whipping boy. Can’t be. Makes me sick. Makes me hate you.” His jaw eased a fraction. His voice dropped. “And I don’t want to hate you, babe. I’ve spent too long loving you to hate you now.”
Her eyes prickled, stung. She swallowed, fighting tears. What was she supposed to say now? She didn’t know and the silence stretched, heavy, suffocating.
Sarah’s gaze dropped to her feet. The carpet was old. Hideous. “I don’t want you to hate me.”
“Then stop throwing the past in my face. Forgive me—”
“I’m trying!”
“Not very hard.”
She shook her head. “It’s not easy to forgive something like this.”
“You’re telling me you wouldn’t forgive Brennan if he shoplifted or played doctor with a little girl?”
“Of course I would. He’s my child.”
“And I’m your husband.”
She said nothing. And it was Boone’s turn to be quiet. He was quiet so long that it made her insides hurt. She finally looked up, into his eyes. He was studying her, his expression somber.
“You’re never going to forgive me,” he said at last.
She cringed at the roughness in his voice, his Southern accent suddenly pronounced. “I wish I could.”
“If you loved me as much as you said you did, you would.”
“I’ve thought that, too. But it’s not that simple. I feel . . . different. Crazy. And my thoughts are just getting crazier.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “I wake up worrying about you, about us, about every woman on the street approaching you, hitting on you, stealing you from me. I wonder constantly where you are, what you’re doing—”
“If I’m not home with you, I’m at the ballpark, or on the bus—”
“Or at a hotel, or in a bar, or in a bed . . . possibly a parked car.”
He looked at her, appalled. “Is that really what you think of me?”
Her chest squeezed, her heart mashed. “See? It’s crazy, I know. But it’s how my brain works. It’s where I go.”
“To the worst-case scenario.”
“Yes.”
“Jesus.”
The raw, raspy note of incredulity in his voice made her eyes burn. “I’m telling you this, Boone, because I’m scared. I’m scared of what’s happening. I’m scared of who I’ve become.”
He was silent so long that she thought he wasn’t going to answer. “So am I, babe,” he said after another long stretch of silence. “So am I.”
She blinked and wiped her eyes, catching the tears before they fell. “You’re not happy either. Are you?”
“Like this? No.”
She knew it. She’d known it. It was over, then. They both knew it. And they’d just been delaying the inevitable. “How do you want this to . . . play out? Should I go, or you? Who should keep the house?”
His shoulders squared. He looked remote, his expression blank, as if she were a stranger instead of his wife for the past thirteen years. “You stay in the house. With the kids. It’s better for all of you.”
She didn’t speak, not right away, holding her breath, waiting for something to shift, give, but nothing happened. Just silence. Emptiness. Distance.
Crushing, she thought. And heartbreaking.
To think she’d come rushing to the stadium for this.
To think he’d raced into the office for this.
Brutal.
“What do we tell the kids?” she whispered.
“Whatever you think is best.”
Suddenly hot tears were filling her eyes, falling. She knocked them away. “I can’t imagine telling them we’re divorcing. Can’t imagine a future where they won’t have both of us.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, babe. This is your idea, not mine.”
“It’s not my idea. It’s not. But you won’t fight for me—”