Page 2 of Feels Like Home

“Heather…” the guy murmurs, reaching for her hand. To what? Comforther?

“Preston. Just go,” she says dismissively, yanking her hand away fromhim.

I bark out a laugh. Even his name is douchey. Is this really what she wants? He couldn’t be more my opposite. Where my hair is short, cropped close to my head, his hair looks like it’s been done for an article in GQ, complete with an abundance of greasy product and highlights. While my skin is an entirely normal shade of color, his tacky spray tan makes his skin orange and resemble an oompa loompa. His lack of neck makes him look like he had one too many steroid injections, and the cherry on the top of this shit sundae? I’m pretty sure he’s about ten years younger than my thirty-five. Ifthat.

Excellent.

“But…” the wimp says, but his voice isweak.

“She’ll catch up to you, soon, Preston boy. No worries. I’m not going to take your little play thing away fromyou.”

He blanches, and Heather makes a choking sound, but I couldn’t care any less. They deserve eachother.

A minute later, I hear his car door slam shut and the engine start up. Heather hasn’t moved from her spot, still standing naked underneath the sheet that covered the bed we onceshared.

I pick up her yoga pants and shirt off the floor and throw them ather.

“Put your clothes on. Meet me in the kitchen,” I tell her, giving her no room for argument. I turn on my heel and storm out of ourbedroom.

In the kitchen, I open the fridge door and grab a beer, thinking that if ever there was a day that called for day drinking, today was the day. I twist the top off the bottle and toss the cap onto the counter. After taking a long pull, letting the liquid cool my throat and dampen my ever-rising anger, I place the bottle on the counter. I’m not sure who I’m angrier with at the moment. Her for being such a supreme bitch or me for letting it continue. Amazing what a guy will put up with for the sake of his youngboys.

I hear Heather approach but don’t turn around. I rest my hands on the counter and take a deep breath, not wanting my mouth to get away fromme.

“Andy…” she starts, but I hold up a hand and stopher.

She squeaks but doesn’t say anythingfurther.

“I don’t want to hearit.”

“But…”

“I said. I don’t want to hear it — got me?” My voice is strong, firm, and unyielding. The exact opposite of her bedmate from a few momentsago.

She remains silent as I lift the bottle and take another drink, giving myself another moment to grasp hold of the words that I need to get out toher.

I spin around and lean back against the counter. I cross my ankles and arms and stare at her. The mother of my sons. The person I once devoted my life to. She doesn’t look anything like the woman I said, “I do”to.

Sure, physically she’s basically the same. But she’s not the same Heather. She’s standing before me in an old pair of black yoga pants, a baggy T-shirt that she stole from me right after we got married, and her dark blonde hair pulled into a ponytail. Typically, this is my favorite look of hers. Casual. Comfy. Relaxed. Right now, I couldn’t be more unattracted to her if Itried.

“How many?” I ask, my voice laced withdisgust.

She fiddles with the hem of her shirt and looks away, her eyes glistening with tears. Are they real? I can’t besure.

I slam my hand on the counter, and she jumps at thenoise.

“Answer me, dammit!” I shout, my patience longgone.

“I don’t know,” shewhispers.

I raise my eyebrows, sadly not shocked enough by heradmission.

“You disgust me,” I tellher.

A sob escapes her, and her hand goes to her mouth. “I’msor—”

“Sorry?”

“Yes,” she whimpers, nodding her headfrantically.

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