Chapter 5 005
EMILY
I barely had the car in park before I was out, slamming the door shut behind me and running toward the front porch. Morgan was already there, like she’d been watching for me, waiting. The second my feet hit the concrete, she opened her arms—and I collapsed into them like a wave finally finding shore.
“Mo…” My voice broke on her name, thin and useless.
She wrapped herself around me, holding me so tight I could feel her heartbeat through my chest, steady and grounding. “I’ve got you, Em,” she murmured into my hair. “You’re okay. Come on. Let’s get inside.”
She didn’t ask questions yet. She just guided me through the door, one hand firm at my back, like she was afraid I might shatter if she let go. She led me straight to the couch, sat us down, and only then did she pull back to really look at me.
Her big brown eyes softened instantly. “Okay,” she said gently. “What happened? Talk to me.”
I opened my mouth and everything spilled out in a messy, uncontrollable rush. “I ruined my marriage, Mo. Ryan is gone. He’s really gone.”
The tears came fast after that. I told her everything. How Ryan walked in and saw me on Fred’s lap. How his face collapsed like I’d physically struck him. How his voice went quiet in that terrifying way that meant he was already pulling away.
I told her how he thought what happened between Fred and me went way further than it actually had. How, in his mind, I’d already crossed lines I hadn’t even known how to describe yet.
“I entertained it,” I whispered, my throat raw. “I let Fred flirt. I flirted back. I didn’t shut it down fast enough. I liked the attention. I liked feeling wanted.” My hands curled into the fabric of Morgan’s sweater. “And now Ryan thinks I’ve been sleeping with my boss for months.”
Morgan didn’t interrupt. Not once. She just listened, rubbing slow circles on my back while I cried, talked, cried some more. She let the silence breathe when I ran out of words and didn’t rush to fill it.
When I finally had nothing left—no tears, no explanations—she pulled me closer again.
“Hey,” she said softly. “Look at me.”
I lifted my swollen face, my vision blurry.
“It’s okay to fall apart,” she said. “You’re allowed to hurt. You’re allowed to feel guilty. But you’re not allowed to disappear on me, okay?” Her voice wobbled just slightly. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
That did it.
I cried harder then—the ugly kind of sobbing that makes your whole body ache, that steals your breath and dignity all at once. Morgan didn’t flinch. She stayed right there, letting me soak into her shoulder, until exhaustion finally claimed me and the world went dark.
When I woke up, the house was quiet except for two voices drifting in from the kitchen.
Sharp. Tense. Arguing.
I rubbed my eyes, my head pounding, and padded barefoot down the hallway. My body felt heavy, like gravity had doubled while I slept.
Morgan stood in the kitchen with her arms crossed, facing a tall guy with a fade haircut and a hoodie that looked too thin for the weather. Her “flavor of the week,” as she liked to call them. He looked deeply uncomfortable, shifting his weight like he was calculating his escape route.
The moment they noticed me, both of them froze.
The guy gave me a quick, awkward nod. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I muttered.
He glanced at Morgan. “I was just leaving anyway.”
“No, wait,” I said quickly, surprising myself. “I’m the one leaving. I need to go home.”
Morgan’s face fell instantly. “Em, no. Stay. Please.” She stepped closer. “We can watch terrible reality TV and eat ice cream straight from the tub. You know the drill.”
I tried to smile, but it wobbled and fell apart halfway through. “I appreciate it. I really do. But I need to be home. I need…” I exhaled shakily. “I don’t know. I just need to be there.”
She studied my face for a long moment, like she was weighing whether to fight me on this. Finally, she sighed. “Okay. But you call me if you need anything. Promise?”
“Promise.”
I grabbed my bag and keys, gave her a quick, tight hug. “See you soon, Mo.”
Then I turned to the guy. “Nice to meet you.”
He gave me a small, sympathetic smile. “Same here. Take care of yourself, yeah?”
I nodded and slipped out before I could change my mind.
The drive home felt endless.
When I finally stepped inside the house, the silence hit me like a slap. No music. No laughter. No Ryan humming off-key while he made coffee, no clatter of dishes, no presence filling the space.
I tried calling him again.
Straight to voicemail.
I tried again.
Same thing.
The third time, the call didn’t even ring—it beeped once and a robotic voice told me the number was no longer in service.
My knees buckled. I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the cold hardwood floor, phone still clutched in my hand.
“Damn,” I whispered to the empty house. “How I wish I never entertained Frederick.”
But wishing didn’t change anything.
The damage was already done.
The next two weeks passed in a gray blur.
I barely left the floor. I cried until there was nothing left to cry. I stared at walls until the paint patterns felt familiar. I didn’t eat unless Morgan forced food into my hands. Showers felt impossible. Getting dressed felt like climbing a mountain.
Morgan refused to let me drown completely.
She showed up every single day. Sometimes with takeout. Sometimes with wine. Sometimes with nothing but her stubborn presence and a playlist she swore would “make me feel something other than sad.”
One afternoon she marched in carrying a giant bag of groceries and announced, “We’re cooking. No arguments.”
“I don’t want to cook,” I muttered from my spot on the living room rug.
“Too bad,” she said cheerfully. “You’re eating real food today, not just crackers and tears.”
I rolled my eyes but got up anyway. We made pasta. She danced around the kitchen, singing horribly off-key, and somehow—for ten whole minutes—I laughed. It hurt, but it was real.
Another day she dragged me outside. “Five minutes,” she said. “That’s all I’m asking.”
We sat on the front steps and watched cars go by. She didn’t push me to talk. She didn’t offer advice. She just sat beside me, shoulder to shoulder.
But even Morgan couldn’t stop the ache that lived permanently under my ribs.
Then came the afternoon that changed everything.
I was on the floor again—same spot, same blanket wrapped around me like armor—when the doorbell rang.
I sighed and pushed myself up, shuffling to the door like a ghost.
Morgan stood there holding a brown envelope, her expression carefully neutral.
“I found this on your doorstep,” she said quietly.
My stomach dropped. “Come in.”
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “Should I open it? Or do you want to?”
My mouth went dry. “Go ahead.”
She slid her finger under the flap, pulled out several sheets of paper—and her whole face changed.
“Em…” Her voice cracked. “These are… these are divorce papers.”