Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
The jab lands, sharp and precise. It always comes back to money, to my career, to the fact that for so long, I was the primary earner. And now that I’m struggling, it’s thrown everything off balance, and he isn’t taking it well.
“Are you implying I haven’t been working?” My voice rises, a defensive heat flushing my cheeks. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to write under this kind of pressure? With all the noise?”
He leans against the counter, crossing his arms, his expression hardening. “Pressure? Petra, you get to write stories for a living. I sit in meetings all day, dealing with spreadsheets and corporate politics, trying to hang on to my job so a fresh-out-of-college kid doesn’t come in and do it for half the price. Don’t tell me about pressure. And frankly, your noise is partly your own making. You didn’t want to be more well known, and I tried to tell you letting them adapt one of your books was just going to make your life more stressful.”
“So now my success is the problem? I thought my lack of success was the problem.”
“No, the problem is you made a lot of money and now you’re making none. I’m happy you’re writing, but I’m a little annoyed that you’re annoyed we’re here. One day isn’t going to make or break this book. You’re being kind of a bitch.”
My jaw drops.
His immediately tightens.
He steps toward me, pulling me in for an embrace. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m just . . . I’m stressed, okay?”
In all our years of marriage, he’s never once used that word at me.
“I wasn’t calling you a bitch. Just . . . God. Our financial future isn’t as secure as it was when you were churning out bestsellers every six months. All I asked was for you to look over expenses, and you’re acting like I don’t appreciate what you do for our family.” He pulls back and looks me in the eye. “I just need a little help, Petra. From my wife.”
The words hang in the air. My wife. The role I’m failing so spectacularly at.
He’s not wrong, not entirely. He carries a burden too. But his inability to truly understand the creative block, the emotional toll of public scrutiny, feels so unsupportive. He always wants me to be the successful, unbothered author, not the messy human struggling beneath the weight of it all.
“I know,” I say, my voice softening, the anger deflating, leaving behind only exhaustion. “I know. It’s just . . . it’s hard to switch gears. My head’s not in that space right now. And with . . . with everything else.” I almost say Saint, but the name catches in my throat, a dangerous secret.
He just sighs, releasing me. The conversation, like so many lately, dead-ends, unresolved. We’re both left with our unspoken grievances, our quiet resentments. He’s stressed, I’m guilty and creatively stifled, and the money situation is a constant undercurrent of tension.
I look at him, at his tired profile, and the guilt gnaws. He’s not a bad man. He’s working hard for our family. But the connection, the spark, the understanding that used to bridge these gaps, feels thin. And I just made it so much worse.
I just don’t feel like I’m Petra here, so him showing up and bringing my real life into my creative solitude is jarring.
These writing weeks give me an opportunity to slip out of my own skin and into the skin of someone else entirely. I sometimes get so immersed in my writing, I don’t just create the character; I become her. It’s like I’m living in two worlds at once—one where I’m Petra, the struggling yet outwardly faithful wife and mother, and another where I’m whichever character I’m writing at the moment, someone who exists only on the pages of my book, unburdened by consequence.
Some call it Method writing, and I suppose I can blame my actions on that, blame it on the fact that I let myself get too deep into the story this time. I let the characters take over, let the narrative consume me, and for a while, it felt like I wasn’t even in control anymore. But it doesn’t excuse what I’ve done. It doesn’t change the cold, hard fact that I made a choice, that I crossed a line I can never uncross.
I cheated on my husband, the man who just sat down on the couch again to scroll through his spreadsheets. And all I can do is hope to hell he never finds out. Because if he does, the tenuous thread our marriage hangs by will snap.
The thought of him knowing, of Shephard looking at me with that raw, wounded hurt and betrayal in his eyes, makes my stomach churn, a sickening, acidic burn. It would destroy him. It would destroy us, the life we’ve meticulously built, brick by agonizing brick.