Page 18 of Heartbreak Baby

Her mouth tightens, but I keep going.

"You knew I wanted kids from the day we met. Then you spent the last year letting me think something was wrong with one of us while you already knew exactly why it wasn’t happening."

I plant both hands on the counter and lean toward her. "You sent me pictures from Cabo, drinking margaritas with Jessica while you were supposedly taking a mental health break because trying for a baby was getting too hard."

The words taste worse the second time around.

"You made me feel sorry for you."

Delia lifts her chin, completely unbothered. "I wasn't in Cabo. I was in a recovery clinic in Miami."

I frown, staring at her. "I saw the pictures, Delia."

"I faked them," she says, waving a manicured hand like it’s no big deal. "I used an AI app to put myself on the beach so you wouldn't ask questions. I needed time to heal."

My stomach turns hard enough that I have to swallow to keep from throwing up.

This wasn’t one lie she came up with because she panicked. She planned the whole fucking thing. The trip. The pictures. The excuse for why she needed to get away. She knew I’d ask questions, so she made sure she had answers ready before I could.

And while she was recovering from surgery she chose behind my back, I was here researching motility supplements, cutting back on caffeine, and lying awake wondering if my sperm was the reason we couldn’t get pregnant.

Then she came home and cried over negative tests she knew would never turn positive.

And I believed every fucking tear.

I spent months trying to figure out how to make things easier for her while she watched me tear myself apart over something she already knew was never going to happen.

And now she’s standing here acting like she’s the victim. Like I’ve somehow done her wrong.

Fuck that.

Delia takes a breath and smooths both hands down the front of her shirt. When she speaks again, her voice has changed. She’s dropped the anger, and now she’s calm. Patient. The same flight-attendant voice she uses when she’s already decided how something is going to go and everyone else needs to get on board.

"Look. You found out, you were hurt, and you acted out. You slept with someone to get back at me. Fine." She gives a small shrug. "We both made mistakes. But I'm willing to forgive you and move past this if you are."

For a second, I honestly think I heard her wrong.

She’s willing to forgive me?

I slowly stand up straight, staring at her like she just grew a second head. "Forgive me?"

"We can go to counseling. We can fix this."

"There’s nothing to fix." I push away from the counter, and something in me finally lets go. I don’t have to calm her down. I don’t have to make this easier for her. I don’t have to save a marriage she already blew apart.

"You had your tubes tied. You don't want kids. I do." I shake my head. "There’s nothing a counselor can do about that."

I don't wait for her to argue. I turn my back on her, walk down the hallway, and push into the master bedroom.

My duffel is on the top shelf of the closet. I yank it down, toss it onto the mattress, and start pulling flight suits and shirts off the hangers and stuffing them inside.

Delia follows me into the room. "You can't just walk out! We’re adults, Sumner. We sit down and we figure this out."

I stop with another shirt in my hand and look at her.

"What the fuck do you think there is to figure out?"

Ignoring her, I yank open a dresser drawer to grab my boxers. My knuckles brush against the divider separating my stuff from Delia’s, and for some fucking reason, the lace on top of her pile makes my mind go straight back to Goldie.