Chapter 17
1327 Words
Tom McCarthy
I pushed the front door open and stepped into a house that already felt wrong before I even closed it behind me.
The silence pressed in immediately, there was no faint clatter from the kitchen, no low murmur of Mariah giving instructions to the other staff, no trace of food warming on the stove the way there used to be when Sara was still trying to hold everything together.
Just emptiness. Thick, cold emptiness that settled over me the moment the door clicked shut.
I dropped my keys onto the console table and the metallic sound bounced off the marble louder than it should have, echoing through the foyer like it was mocking me.
My tie was already loosened from the drive, sleeves rolled up, but I still felt constricted, like the day had wrapped itself around my throat and refused to loosen its grip. I walked toward the living room because that was where Emily’s voice drifted from....soft, lazy, giggling at something the masseuse must have said, the sound light and careless in a way that grated against the quiet.
She was stretched out on the chaise lounge, face down, white towel draped loosely across her hips and barely covering anything else.
The masseuse....a woman in black scrubs...was working slow circles into her shoulders, oil shining on Emily’s skin under the low lamp light. Her red hair spilled over the edge of the cushion like spilled wine, catching the glow and burning brighter than anything else in the room.
She lifted her head when she heard my footsteps. Smiled slow and lazy, the way she always did when she knew she had my attention.
“Hey baby,” she purred, voice thick with satisfaction. “You’re home early.”
I didn’t smile back. My eyes moved over the room...empty plates scattered on the coffee table, wine glass half full with lipstick smeared on the rim, no dinner trays, no covered dishes, no sign that anyone had even thought about preparing food tonight.
“Where’s dinner?” I asked, voice low, already knowing the answer was going to irritate me more than it should.
Emily waved one manicured hand like the question wasn’t worth her time. “I didn’t make any. My hands are tired from… everything.” She giggled again, light and careless, then sighed dramatically into the cushion as the masseuse pressed harder on her lower back. “And I thought you knew I don’t cook. That’s what staff is for, right? Or at least that’s what you used to say when Sara was here doing it all for you before she started disappearing to who knows where.”
I stared at her for a long moment, feeling something twist low in my gut...not quite anger, but close enough to taste bitter on my tongue. She was still smiling, still relaxed, still acting like this house belonged to her now and everything inside it was hers to ignore or use whenever she felt like it.
I turned toward the hallway just as Mariah appeared...coat already buttoned, bag over her shoulder, walking fast toward the side door like she hoped to slip out before anyone noticed her.
“Mariah,” I called.
She stopped mid-step. Turned slowly. Her eyes met mine calmly, but tired, like she’d been carrying something heavy all day and was finally allowed to put it down.
I stepped closer. “Why is there no food tonight?”
She didn’t flinch or look away. Just answered quietly, the way she always did when she knew the truth wasn’t going to be well received.
“You released me from kitchen duty yesterday, sir. You said Emily would handle things from now on. I took you at your word.”
The memory slammed into me sharp and immediate. I’d said it. Snapped it, really—after Emily had complained that Sara’s cooking was “too plain” and “boring,” after Emily had laughed and said she didn’t understand why anyone would want to spend time in a kitchen when there were better things to do.
I’d told Mariah to stop. Told her Emily would take over. I’d said it like it was a done deal, like it was nothing.
I looked back toward the living room. Emily was watching us now, propped up on one elbow, towel slipping just enough to show more skin. Her lips were curved, eyes glittering like she was enjoying every second of this little scene.
Mariah shifted her bag higher on her shoulder. “If there’s nothing else… I’ll be going home now.”
I nodded once. Couldn’t speak past the tightness in my throat.
She left. The side door clicked shut behind her, soft ly.
Emily sat up slowly. The towel slipped lower. She stretched like a cat waking from a nap, arms above her head, back arching.
“Where’s Sara?” I asked. My voice came out flat, almost bored, even though I didn’t feel bored at all.
Emily shrugged one bare shoulder. “Not home yet. Probably out somewhere. You know how she is.....always disappearing when things get hard. Or maybe she’s off crying or getting f****d somewhere. Who knows?”
I stood there, staring at the empty kitchen doorway, feeling the absence of everything that used to fill this space. No food waiting. No Sara moving quietly through the rooms, trying to make things right. No Mariah, steady and silent, keeping the house from falling apart. Just Emily—half-naked, smiling, waiting for me to come closer like nothing was wrong, like this was the life I’d chosen.
I felt something twist deeper in my chest—something heavy, something that made my breathing feel labored, something that tasted like regret even though I refused to name it.
I walked past her without a word.
Straight to the kitchen.
Opened the fridge.
Empty shelves stared back at me. Half a carton of milk. A bottle of wine. Nothing else.
I slammed it shut harder than I meant to. The sound echoed through the empty room.
Emily appeared behind me, arms sliding around my waist from behind, chin resting on my shoulder.
“Baby… relax,” she whispered against my ear. “We can order in. Or…” Her fingers trailed lower, teasing the waistband of my pants. “We can skip dinner altogether.”
I caught her wrist and stopped her.
She laughed softly against my neck. “What’s wrong? You’re so tense tonight.”
I turned to face her.
Looked down into those glittering eyes.
“You said you’d handle things,” I said quietly, each word measured, each one heavy with the weight of what I was starting to see.
She blinked. Tried for innocent. “I am handling things. I handled the masseuse. I handled relaxing. What else do you want from me, Tom?”
I didn’t answer and Just stared.
She pouted again, lower lip pushing out in that practiced way. “You’re no fun tonight.”
I stepped back. Out of her arms.
“I’m going upstairs.”
She watched me go, smile still in place, but something flickered in her eyes...annoyance, maybe. Or calculation.
I didn’t look back.
The bedroom was dark when I reached it. I didn’t turn on the light.
Just stood there in the doorway.
Thinking about Sara.
About the way she used to have dinner ready when I walked in...nothing fancy, just warm, just thoughtful. Steak the way I liked it. Vegetables cut small because she knew I hated big pieces. Coffee waiting on the counter when I came home late, still hot, still perfect.
Thinking about how she never complained.
Never asked for anything.
Thinking about the hospital call earlier.
The donor backed out. And I still hadn’t told her.
I sat on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands.
I picked my phone and decided to call Sara, I held back.
"Cheaters done deserve my grace...."
- Writer
