Feels Like Home

by Jennifer Van Wyk

  Table of Contents

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Andy

  Christine

  Coming Soon

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Feels Like Home

  Jennifer Van Wyk

  Copyright © 2018 by Jennifer Van Wyk

  Blue Tulip Publishing INC

  ISBN-978-1-946061-23-2

  Cover Art-Jena Brignolia

  Photo Credit-“The Free Photography”

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  To the boys who gave me inspiration.

  You each deserve your own book.

  Who knows. Maybe one day it’ll happen.

  Contents

  1. Andy

  2. Andy

  3. Christine

  4. Andy

  5. Christine

  6. Andy

  7. Christine

  8. Christine

  9. Andy

  10. Christine

  11. Christine

  12. Andy

  13. Christine

  14. Christine

  15. Andy

  16. Christine

  17. Andy

  18. Christine

  19. Andy

  20. Andy

  21. Andy

  22. Christine

  23. Andy

  24. Andy

  25. Christine

  26. Andy

  27. Christine

  28. Andy

  29. Andy

  30. Christine

  31. Andy

  32. Andy

  33. Andy

  34. Andy

  35. Christine

  36. Andy

  37. Christine

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Coming Soon

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  Andy

  I stand in the doorway to my bedroom, leaning against the doorjamb with my arms crossed, watching while my wife knocks down the last remaining brick holding our marriage up.

  Not that it was sturdy anyway.

  It had been crumbling for years.

  “Well, I wish I could say I’m surprised, but damn, I’m honestly not.”

  At the sound of my voice, Heather shrieks, her head jerking up from her reverse position on top of some douche with his Hummer parked in my driveway. Ironic, since he has something else parked in what’s mine, also.

  “Andy?” Heather squeals, using the sheet on the bed to cover her chest. Not that it matters. We’re married, so it’s not like she’s hiding anything I’ve never seen before.

  I sneer and turn my head to the side, narrowing my eyes as the guy under her grunts and grips her hips. I’m not sure if he’s stupid or in denial. Is this asshole seriously going to try to continue having sex with my wife while I stand in the doorway? Did he not hear her say my name? Or realize that she’s stopped moving?

  “Yo!” I say loudly.

  “Andy…” Heather starts, her voice wobbly and unsure.

  His head pops out from behind the back of my naked wife, and his eyes widen.

  “Not now, Heather. You.” I point to him. “Get the fuck out of my bed, tuck your dick back into your pants, and get out of my house. You can meet back up with Heather later — she won’t be staying here tonight anyway.”

  “Dude. I had no—”

  “Bullshit. You had no idea? There’s a picture of us on our anniversary a few years back sitting on the nightstand right there,” I say, gesturing toward the picture.

  The asshole pushes Heather off him, stands up, and I cringe when I hear him snap the condom off his dick that he was thankfully wearing. Made the moment even more awkward than it already was. Then he reaches down to the floor and grabs his boxers. Of course, he wears tight as hell short boxer briefs that practically ride up his ass. Like I didn’t already know he was a douche, he just added to it with his underwear selection. One day I’ll look back on that particular thought and probably seriously question what was going through my head when I had just caught my wife mounted up on another man, riding him backwards.

  But the truth is? I knew this was coming. This guy? He’s not her first. I know it happened at least once before, maybe twice. Or hell, I don’t know how many times. I’m not an idiot. She claims it’s my fault that we’ve grown distant. That she feels like she’s living someone else’s life. But the thing is, if people have affairs they can have excuse after excuse, but that’s all they are. Excuses. If a person is going to step out of their marriage, they’re going to use any excuse they can to do it — damn the consequences and whoever they hurt in the process.

  Douche looks me in the eye once he’s dressed then bends down and kisses Heather on the cheek while sliding a hand around her waist; she’s wrapped only in a sheet. He smirks at me, clearly thinking he’s winning here. She has the decency to try to shy away from him, not that it matters much. I already saw everything I needed to see.

  I raise my eyebrows at him. “You think you have something special? You think you won? Have her.”

  His steps falter, and he eyes me; I’m even confused by my flippant response. He thought seeing him kiss her would bother me? Not a chance.

  “Andy!” Heather cries out, as if she’s hurt. Offended.

  I turn and stare at her head on and take a long look at what I’m walking away from.

  The mother of my children.

  The woman I pledged my life to in front of God and family and friends.

  The woman I, at one time, thought I would be spending my entire life with.

  It’s a strange epiphany.

  To discover that your life is no longer mapped out the way you thought it was.

  “You think you’re anything to me now? You step out on our marriage any chance you get. You may not have slept with all of them, but don’t think I didn’t know.”

  She squeaks, and her lower lip starts to tremble, but I don’t let up.

  “What? You thought you were sneaky about it? That you could hide your flirtations? Your text messages or Facebook messages? You think I was blind to it? Don’t you wonder why I haven’t touched you in months?”

  “Heather…” the guy murmurs, reaching for her hand. To what? Comfort her?

  “Preston. Just go,” she says dismissively, yanking her hand away from him.

  I bark out a laugh. Even his name is douchey. Is this really what she wants? He couldn’t be more my opposite. Where my hair is short, cropped close to my head, his hair looks like it’s been done for an article in GQ, complete with an abundance of greasy product and highlights. While my skin is an entirely normal shade of color, his tacky spray tan makes his skin orange and resemble an oompa loompa. His lack of neck makes him look like he had one too many steroid injections, and the cherry on the top of this shit sundae? I’m pretty sure he’s about ten years younger than my thirty-five. If that.

  Excellent.

  “But…” the wimp says, but his voice is weak.

  “She’ll catch up to you, soon, Preston boy. No worries. I’m not going to take your little play thing away from you.”

  He blanches, and Heather makes a choking sound, but I couldn’t care any less. They deserve each other.

  A minute later, I hear his car door slam shut and the engine start up. Heather hasn’t moved from her spot, still standing naked underneath the sheet that covered the bed we once shared.

  I pick up her yoga pants and shirt off the f
loor and throw them at her.

  “Put your clothes on. Meet me in the kitchen,” I tell her, giving her no room for argument. I turn on my heel and storm out of our bedroom.

  In the kitchen, I open the fridge door and grab a beer, thinking that if ever there was a day that called for day drinking, today was the day. I twist the top off the bottle and toss the cap onto the counter. After taking a long pull, letting the liquid cool my throat and dampen my ever-rising anger, I place the bottle on the counter. I’m not sure who I’m angrier with at the moment. Her for being such a supreme bitch or me for letting it continue. Amazing what a guy will put up with for the sake of his young boys.

  I hear Heather approach but don’t turn around. I rest my hands on the counter and take a deep breath, not wanting my mouth to get away from me.

  “Andy…” she starts, but I hold up a hand and stop her.

  She squeaks but doesn’t say anything further.

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “But…”

  “I said. I don’t want to hear it — got me?” My voice is strong, firm, and unyielding. The exact opposite of her bedmate from a few moments ago.

  She remains silent as I lift the bottle and take another drink, giving myself another moment to grasp hold of the words that I need to get out to her.

  I spin around and lean back against the counter. I cross my ankles and arms and stare at her. The mother of my sons. The person I once devoted my life to. She doesn’t look anything like the woman I said, “I do” to.

  Sure, physically she’s basically the same. But she’s not the same Heather. She’s standing before me in an old pair of black yoga pants, a baggy T-shirt that she stole from me right after we got married, and her dark blonde hair pulled into a ponytail. Typically, this is my favorite look of hers. Casual. Comfy. Relaxed. Right now, I couldn’t be more unattracted to her if I tried.

  “How many?” I ask, my voice laced with disgust.

  She fiddles with the hem of her shirt and looks away, her eyes glistening with tears. Are they real? I can’t be sure.

  I slam my hand on the counter, and she jumps at the noise.

  “Answer me, dammit!” I shout, my patience long gone.

  “I don’t know,” she whispers.

  I raise my eyebrows, sadly not shocked enough by her admission.

  “You disgust me,” I tell her.

  A sob escapes her, and her hand goes to her mouth. “I’m sor—”

  “Sorry?”

  “Yes,” she whimpers, nodding her head frantically.

  “For what, exactly? For screwing every man you came in contact with? For risking everything for a quick fuck? For being a sucky role model for our sons? For letting them think that this is the type of marriage that is okay?” My voice is increasing in both intensity and volume, but I don’t have it in me to try to calm down.

  She starts sobbing, buckling over at the waist, but I don’t give a shit.

  “I thought…” I laugh humorlessly. “Man, Heather. I thought maybe it was just a few guys. I had a sinking feeling and kept trying to convince myself I was wrong. And, damn, I wish I were. Do I need to be tested? If you—”

  “No. You don’t need to be tested. I’ve been tested, and always use condoms.”

  I nod my head and scrub a hand over my face, hardly believing that this is my life. I suck in a deep breath through my nose and let it out.

  “We’re done.”

  Her head shoots up, and she wipes under her eyes then along the side of her pants.

  “What?”

  “Did I stutter? We’re done. Gather your shit. Get out of this house.”

  “But… don’t you want to work this out?”

  “Work what out?”

  “Our marriage, Andy!”

  “We haven’t had a marriage in years! Since the first time you let some other man have a relationship with you, touch you… stick. His. Dick. In. You. How long has that been, Heather?” I’m shouting, the veins in my forehead rising to the point where I feel my head could explode.

  “I…” she croaks out.

  “Out.” I say, my voice now low and with finality I continue, squaring my shoulders and looking her dead in the eye. “I want a divorce. You’re going to be honest with the boys. I want them to hear it from you, rather than the rumor mill. We’re going to sell this house because damn if I can ever sleep in this place again, knowing you’ve been screwing other men in the home we built together.”

  “You can’t be serious?”

  “Oh, I’m serious.”

  “But… Aidan and Reece?”

  “Will be with me. I don’t want your influence on them.”

  “Andy! They’re my—”

  “Shoulda thought of that before you started screwing around on me, Heather. I was good to you. Even when I knew — and trust me, I knew — you were having an affair, or affairs, it seems, I was still good to you. Yes, we may have drifted apart.”

  She opens her mouth like she’s going to start using it as an excuse for her actions.

  “Life happened, Heather. Life. It’s nothing other married couples don’t go through. You made this choice. You did this.”

  And with that final word, I push off the counter and walk toward her. I lean close, the last time I ever plan to be this close to her, and say right into her ear, “This is on you. You. Did. This. You wanted freedom? You didn’t want to be tied down? You got it.”

  I walk away, storm through the front door, and take a deep breath of fresh air. The first breath I feel like I’ve taken in years. The first breath of the rest of my life.

  2

  Andy

  As soon as she walks out of our house with a small bag packed, after begging me to change my mind, of course, I climb into my pickup and don’t turn back, but I had to make sure she was really gone before I left.

  Not having a clue where to go, I just drive.

  I walk into Dreamin’ Beans, the best coffee shop in town, with no doubt a look of pure fury on my face. It’s one of my favorite places to be. Christine’s pastries are out of this world, and her coffee is the best. I don’t know what she does different from others, but it’s like magic in a cup. And Heather hated it. Said she would never step foot in the place because she could make coffee at home for cheaper — which makes no sense because she loves to spend money — and she didn’t need to think about fattening herself up with all the bakery items. Her loss.

  “Um, hey, Andy. You okay there?” Christine asks, looking at me warily. She and I have known each other for a few years now, teetering on that line between mere acquaintances and friends. We kind of run in the same circle, though her daughter, Bri, is several years older than my boys. But she’s friends with one of my bosses, Barrett. In fact, Barrett and his wife, Tess, helped her start up Dreamin’ Beans after her husband passed away. Christine’s daughter, Bri, and Barrett and Tess’s son, Grady, are even closer. They’re walking that fine line between friends and more than friends and from the sounds of it, not doing a very good job of it.

  When I started working for Barrett and Josh, co-owners – and best friends since childhood – of the general contracting company I’ve been with for most of my adult life, it was simply as a summer job doing construction, but I found that I loved the work. Doing something with my hands every day, using my body, building someone’s home, it made me happy. They’ve put trust in me, and I run my own crew now.

  Barrett and Josh’s families are just that to me… family.

  “Andy?” Christine’s concerned voice snaps me out of my trance.

  “Fine.”

  She eyes me wearily. “What can I get ya?”

  “The last fifteen years back. No. I take that back. I want the boys, so let’s go the last fourteen years.”

  She looks at me for a bit, blinks slowly before nodding her head once. Without taking her eyes from me, she hollers, “Hey, Emma? Can you cover the front for a while?”

  “You got it, boss!”

  C
hristine fills two to-go cups with black coffee, grabs two plates and something out of the pastry case, then places the cups on top of a tray along with the plates, and winks at me. She nods her head in the direction of the back room then turns on her heel and starts walking.

  I follow her, even though I have no idea why, and less than two minutes later I’m settled on the plush tan-colored couch in her office. She hands me a plate holding an enormous piece of lemon pound cake, my favorite. She removes the lids from the coffee cups, reaches into one of the drawers in her desk, and lifts a short square bottle out, pours a shot of brown liquid into each, smiles at me then places the lids back on the cups and hands one to me before sitting on the other side of the couch and taking a sip of her own.

  I raise my eyebrows at her, and she simply shrugs.

  “Emergency purposes only. I promise.”

  Good enough.

  Irish coffee it is. I think I’m probably going to either feel really good by the end of our chat, or really bad, depending on how many more of these she pours me.

  She tucks her legs under her, places an elbow on the back of the couch and rests her cheek against her fist. “Where’re the boys?”

  “Football practice. My mom is picking them up today. Thank fuck.”

  She doesn’t even flinch at my use of the harsh word, or the anger in my voice. “So, Mr. Simpson. Wanna talk about it?”

  “Would you wanna talk about it if you saw your wife — or husband in your case — having sex with another person on your bed?”