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We met when Wyatt was still playing for the Mavericks, the professional team in Houston. Even though I grew up around football, I never got along with the other WAGs, the wives and girlfriends of the players. The one exception was Hilde, although she was never technically a WAG, since she’s the heir to some oil fortune and bought the team for her husband as a wedding present.

Until he cheated on her.

But instead of selling the team, Hilde kept it. Has even led the Mavericks to a few championship titles, a fact she likes to rub in her ex-husband’s face as often as possible.

Not wanting her to worry about me longer than necessary, I type out a quick reply.

Me:

I’m safe. Spending the holidays in Sycamore Falls. I’ll call you soon. Love you.

I hit send, then toss the phone onto the bed, looking around my bedroom at the memories of a life that, until a few days ago, I’d convinced myself was the one I’d always wanted.

Maybe it was. It’s not anymore.

At least I don’t think it is.

I’m not sure what I want right now.

But I do know I don’t want to be surrounded by reminders of Wyatt.

So I take a page out of my mother’s book and spend the next few hours removing one photograph at a time.

One memory at a time.

One broken promise at a time.

Until the room starts looking a little less like the life I once had and a little more like a blank slate.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

WYNTER

I thought the hardest thing about coming home would be telling my parents I was leaving Wyatt.

I was wrong.

The hardest part has been living under the same roof as my father while he tries to come to terms with my marriage ending.

He hasn’t apologized for questioning me when I first told him about Wyatt’s infidelity.

He hasn’t brought it up again, either, which I suppose is progress.

But whenever we’re in the same room, he’s distant. Like he doesn’t know what to say to me if I’m not attached to Wyatt.

As expected, Wyatt’s team won their big game on Saturday. Dad watched every second in the den with the door closed. Then on Sunday, it was announced that the team would be headed to the Heritage Bowl. Dad hasn’t stopped talking about it since.

Just not to me.

Thankfully, I’ve been spending as much time as possible outside of the house. Partly because I hate the tension between my father and me. Partly because I’m not ready to face Joshua again. Not after I accused him of sleeping with me.

I still get embarrassed whenever I think about Saturday morning, which I do more often than I care to admit.

I think about the heat of his breath as he leaned toward me, his lips a whisper from my ear.

I think about the way his nearness made my heart stutter.

I think about the huskiness in his voice when he told me if we’d slept together, I’d know it.