Page 177 of Fault Lines
**MARCH 20**
Lacey was relentless. I knew what she was doing. I knew I shouldn’t let her. But it was easier than going home and facing Livi. God, I’m a coward. I was so, so weak.
I froze, rereading that entry, then the ones that followed, documenting the affair in grim, clinical detail.
**APRIL 4**
I never thought I’d cheat. Never thought I’d be that guy. I’d planned to follow the rules. Never thought I’d need an open marriage. But it’s like I needed to destroy something just to feel alive. I didn’t even like Lacey that much. I just hated myself, and being with her made it hurt less. For a few hours, anyway.
I wanted to slam the journal shut, throw it against the wall, but something kept me turning pages.
**APRIL 15**
When I found out Lacey was pregnant, for a minute I thought all our prayers were answered. That I could take a baby home and give Olivia the family we wanted. Deep down, I knew that was ridiculous. That’s why I couldn’t tell Livi right away. I knew it was going to blow up in my face.
**APRIL 20**
When I told Olivia about the baby, I hurt her worse than anyone has ever hurt me, and I still can’t forgive myself. I knew she would leave me but I couldn’t change the past.
**MAY 10**
Therapy is a joke. Or maybe I am. I keep waiting for Dr. Stiles to give up on me, but she keeps saying it’s “a process.” I don’t think I believe her, but I don’t want to quit. Not yet.
There were more entries—so many more—each one a slow, desperate climb out of the pit. I read about Cam’s guilt, his self-loathing, his attempts to make amends, the nights he stayed up pacing the kitchen, rehearsing apologies he never said out loud. I read about his dreams, most of them ending in the same nightmare: me leaving, closing the door, and never looking back.
**JULY 9**
Lacey moved away. The baby is gone. It was never mine anyway. And deep down, I think I never wanted it. Not really. I’m relieved she’s gone. At least I don’t have to look at a reminder of my mistakes. It’s bad enough living with them in my mind.
**AUGUST 28**
I think I’m getting better. Not fixed, but better. I still love Olivia. I want to try. I want her to believe I’m capable of love. Real, true love. I want to believe it too.
**SEPTEMBER 10**
Dr. Stiles said to write a letter to my future self if Olivia ever takes me back. So here it is: Don’t fuck this up. Be kind. Be patient. Don’t run from the hard things. Hold her hand when she needs it, and let her go if that’s what’s best. Don’t ever let her think she’s not enough.
I set the journal down, hands trembling. I’d read it all in a single sitting, every last word, even the ones that made me want to disappear into the mattress.
There were tears, of course there were, but it wasn’t just sadness. It was anger, and grief, and relief, and something else—something like hope, so fragile I didn’t dare name it.
Cam came home late, sweat-damp and breathing hard from his run. He stood in the bedroom doorway, saw the journal on my lap, and hesitated. I wiped my face and said, “I read it.”
He nodded, eyes brimming with a panic I recognized from years before. “Are you okay?”
I wanted to laugh, but I was too spent.
Instead, I said, “Thank you. For letting me in.”
He crossed the room, perched on the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap. “I meant every word,” he said.
I believed him. For the first time, I really did.
He leaned over, brushed a tear from my cheek, then lay down beside me, silent and still, like he was afraid any sudden movement would undo the moment.
I held the journal to my chest and closed my eyes, letting myself grieve for the life we’d lost and hope for the one we might still build.
I cried, quietly, until sleep took me. And when I woke, Cam was still there, holding my hand.
