Page 42 of Debt of My Soul

Four Months Ago

Traffic in Grand Rapids is disgustingly congested at times. After spending the afternoon with my mother shopping, my feet are tired, and I want to curl up with a cup of coffee. Snow still dusts the roads, and despite the glaring sun and blue skies, the temperature barely made it past forty degrees today.

The plan was to meet my father for dinner downtown, but both my mother and I were over the day.

While driving out of the city, I call our favorite pizza place in Rockford, planning to surprise Chris for dinner. He’s been working from home today even though it’s a Saturday. He won’t admit it, but he’s throwing as many extra hours as possible into his schedule. I think he’s saving for a ring. At least I hope he is.

My heart flutters at the thought, and I glance down at my left hand that grips the steering wheel. Nine years. We celebrated nine years over a month ago, and while I thought we’d be married by now, I’m content with our life.

The house we purchased sits on a busy road in a small community. Both Chris and I have talked about moving before having kids. Unfortunately, the housing market where we live is awful and interest rates are too high right now to consider purchasing another house.

It’s hard, though. Our friends from high school, the group we always surround ourselves with, are slowly getting married and settling down. Logically, I know it’s not a competition to see who can end up in a secure marriage and pop out babies the fastest but …

I pull into the pizza shop, noting it’s busier than normal. Probably with others who have been running errands all day, not wanting to cook either.

The owner, Rob, pins me with a judgy look when I pay for the two pepperoni pies. Pretty sure he remembers we picked up pizza only five nights ago. I flash him a grin and shrug my shoulder.

Raising my hand to open the door, I head back out to the parking lot. The pizza in the car makes my mouth water so I slide open the top of the box to pick a greasy pepperoni off the top. It’s official. I eat too much pizza.

Most of the time, I can get away with bringing leftovers into work. However, Chris’s mom often makes snide comments about our takeout. I believe she’s looking for me to make homemade meals for her son.

It wasn’t my plan to forgo a four-year college after high school, but Chris bought his house right after graduation, and we didn’t want to start our life in too much debt. When the opportunity to work for Chris’s parents presented itself, I jumped in with both feet. I enjoy my job, though. Mostly, I deal with customer service for them, but I feel like part of the family.

This job is something I can do with my high school diploma and still have time to devote to learning photography. Chrisgave me my dream camera last Christmas, and I melted at his thoughtfulness.

Our little community sits off a four-lane road, but the kids are still outside, playing as if in their own little world while their parents sit in the driveways, sipping drinks. I smile at them as I round the corner to our home.

The plants I have in the two cream pots on the stoop are twigs now, having been destroyed by winter. The siding needs a good power wash, but the front door is inviting.

I pull in behind an unfamiliar car, grateful I grabbed two pizzas in case Chris has his buddies over. The black Ford Focus has a GVSU sticker on the rear window and I rack my brain, trying to remember who we know from Grand Valley State University.

The pizza warms my hands as I walk to the door, fumbling with my keys. Trying not to drop the precious pepperoni is my only goal as I wrestle to pluck the right key from the ring, but I manage to open the storm door, then the heavy wooden one.

“Hey! It’s just me,” I call out, dropping my keys in the bowl on the island. I set the pizzas down and yank off my coat, then toss it on the mini church pew that doubles as our entryway bench. It was a flea market find and I’m slightly obsessed.

I don’t hear anything, and I glance into the living room, noticing an unfamiliar black coat tossed on the couch. I spin, searching the house. It’s not large, so I’m not sure where he would be.

A sound comes from the back of the house—from our bedroom. I squint at the closed door and an odd sensation wriggles up my spine as I pad toward it.

The shower is on. I can hear it from the en suite despite the closed doors. Brows furrowed, I push into the bedroom. The bed is still made from this morning, but a pink purse lies sprawled out on the end.

I gulp.

Chris’s laughter sounds from the bathroom, muffled by the sound of the falling shower. I turn toward it. Steam wafts under the crack between the door and the bedroom carpet.

A pit forms in my stomach as I inch forward, my hand hovering over the door handle.

“Right there, Chris. Don’t stop.” A high-pitched female voice mewls.

I freeze. Heat flames in my cheeks, and I can feel the blood drain from my face. My mouth falls open as I stare at the door. Embarrassment and shame have me taking two steps backward, my eyes still glued to the bathroom, where Chris lets out another grunt.

He …

He’s …

I turn, stumbling into the bed, my face planting next to the pink bag and the waft of—what the hell—lavender? Numb, I push up, bolting for the bedroom door, my head taking one last glimpse toward the bathroom. With one quick jerk, I slam the door to the bedroom behind me.

Our bedroom. Our haven.

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