Chapter 3: The First Lie

I walked with her along the beach, we ate together, and talked about the past and the future.

Our shoes in hand, toes digging into the cool, wet sand, we let the breeze tangle our hair as we traded stories, half-laughing, half-crying.

She told me, “I’m sorry, Derek. My parents... they just didn’t think you were enough. I was a kid, you know? I listened to them because I didn’t know how not to. I couldn’t bring myself to break with my parents for you. Now that you’re a father, you can understand, right?”

Her voice wavered, a mixture of shame and longing. I could see the pain in her eyes, the regret she tried to hide behind a brave smile.

Back when we were dating, she suddenly broke up with me. I went to her hometown, only to find out she was preparing to marry some rich guy she’d met on a dating app.

That memory still stung, even after all these years. I remembered standing in her front yard, clutching flowers and feeling like a fool.

She said, “Derek, you were broke, your family was broke—what did you have to offer me? Could you give me the life I wanted?”

Her words cut, but they were honest. It was the same question I’d been asking myself for years.

“So that means you could cheat on me? If you wanted to marry him, you could’ve just broken up with me first!”

My voice was rough, the old pain boiling up. My hands balled into fists in my pockets, knuckles aching.

But she started sobbing, “I loved you, okay? I did. I just... I couldn’t stand the thought of hurting you. Does that make me the bad guy?”

Her shoulders shook, tears sliding down her cheeks, drawing tracks through her makeup. She looked so lost, so vulnerable—like the girl I first fell in love with.

Back then, we hugged and cried bitterly. I blamed my own incompetence. I even blamed my parents for not giving me better circumstances.

I remembered clutching her in the rain, both of us soaked and shivering. It felt like the end of the world, and maybe for us, it was.

All those feelings from the past came rushing back.

I felt a strange mix of anger and tenderness. I wanted to hate her, but I just couldn’t. I never could.

Aubrey started crying again as she spoke to me now.

Her hands shook as she dabbed at her eyes. She still cried beautifully—messy but elegant, every emotion raw and visible.

She cried gracefully—tears streaming down as she spoke, dabbing at her eyes with tissues.

I handed her a napkin from the table. She took it, smiled through her tears, and my heart twisted all over again.

It turned out she was already divorced. Her ex-husband had gone bankrupt and was deep in debt.

She shrugged, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "He thought money could fix everything. Turns out, debt just breaks it all faster."

Now he couldn’t even pay child support for their daughter.

The bitterness in her voice was sharp. I saw the exhaustion etched into her features—single motherhood, unpaid bills, constant stress.

She was working and raising twin daughters on her own. It wasn’t easy.

I couldn’t help but admire her resilience. She looked tired, but she never let it break her.

My heart ached for her. Across the table, I couldn’t help but reach for her hand. “Why didn’t you tell me? I have money now—I can help you.”

I squeezed her hand, desperate to bridge the distance those years had built between us. If I could, I’d have fixed everything for her right then.

She instinctively tried to pull her hand back, but after a moment’s hesitation, she let me hold it.

Her palm was cool, trembling slightly in mine. It felt like we were balancing on the edge of something dangerous and thrilling.

“After hurting you so badly back then, how could I possibly face you?”

Her voice was barely a whisper, the kind that makes you lean in, aching to comfort.

“It’s been eighteen years. I’ve already forgiven you.”

I meant it. Whatever pain I’d carried, it had softened over time, like a bruise that finally fades.

We hadn’t seen each other in eighteen years, but meeting again felt like it had only been eighteen days.

It was as if nothing had changed, and yet everything had. The chemistry between us still crackled, undeniable as ever.

It was still like the first time—we were both drawn to each other, every smile and frown tugging at my heart.

It was intoxicating, terrifying, and exhilarating all at once. I felt alive in a way I hadn’t in years.

She asked, “Do you travel for work a lot? Doesn’t your wife mind?”

Her tone was casual, but her eyes searched mine for something deeper. She wanted to know if there was still space for her in my life.

I knew she was probing about my marriage.

I could feel the weight of the question, the hope and fear tangled in her words.

I said, “Sigh, out of 365 days, I spend 300 on business trips. What can I do? Except for things about our son, my wife rarely contacts me.”

The lie tasted bitter, but I said it anyway. I wanted her to believe I was just as lonely as she was.

I deliberately made my situation sound worse than it was.

Maybe I wanted her sympathy, or maybe I just wanted an excuse to reach for her again.

That night, I walked her back to her hotel, and she asked, “Do you want to come up for a while?”

The question hung in the air, thick with possibility. I nodded, heart pounding.

That night, I didn’t leave her room.

We clung to each other, desperate and wild. Years of longing poured out in whispered apologies and fevered kisses.

Eighteen years of pent-up longing, regret, and love—I poured it all out with her.

There was no shame in that moment, just release. I felt whole for the first time in forever.

My whole body and soul felt satisfied.

For a while, I just lay there, eyes closed, letting the peace settle in.

Lying in bed with her in my arms, I really wanted a cigarette. I missed the taste of nicotine, but I’d quit years ago.

I could almost taste it—old habits die hard. I toyed with the idea, then shook my head, remembering why I stopped.

Ten years earlier, after I was diagnosed with a lung nodule, my wife made me quit smoking.

Natalie had thrown out every last pack, scrubbed the smell from my jackets, and stuck patches on the fridge. She'd cared more about my health than I did.

But Aubrey skillfully bit a cigarette, took a puff, then held it to my lips.

She always made vices look elegant. Her lipstick left a tiny print on the filter.

I didn’t refuse. I took a deep drag.

The smoke burned my throat, but in that moment, it felt right. Like I was reclaiming a piece of my old self.

It felt amazing.

We laughed, sharing a secret, a little rebellion against the lives we'd built apart.

She asked, “Derek, can you divorce your wife for me? Your marriage isn’t happy anyway.”

Her voice was hopeful and afraid, like a kid wishing on a shooting star.

I blurted out, “I can.”

The words tumbled out before I could stop them. I wanted her to believe them, maybe even more than I did.

All these years, I’d never truly let go of Aubrey.

There was a part of me still stuck in that old summer, still chasing what we lost.

She smiled sweetly, wrapped her arms around my neck, and kissed me. “Then when you go back, divorce her and marry me, okay?”

She pressed her forehead to mine, her breath soft and warm. It felt dangerously good.

Suddenly, my wife’s face flashed through my mind.

For a split second, guilt gnawed at me. Natalie's kindness, her unwavering support—it all flooded back.

Natalie’s face appeared in my thoughts.

The memory of her tucking our son in at night, humming softly, made my chest tighten.

Other than Natalie, I’d never thought of anyone else as my wife.

She was my home—the kind of comfort you never realize you need until it's threatened.

But I still answered, “Okay.”

I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to believe I could start over.