dream.
The next morning, Brad dressed for work, ate a quick bowl of cereal, and kissed Darlene before he walked out the door. Just like he’d always done. She wanted to ask him about Barbara so badly that her stomach hurt. Maybe having it all out on the table would be better than the wondering, speculating— the horrible visions in her head. Or . . . would the truth be so terrible she’d never get over it? What if she confronted him and he wanted a divorce? What if he was in love with this woman?
The kids left for school shortly after Brad, and Darlene forced herself to do the household tasks that morning. But nothing could distract her from what she’d overheard. She looked out the window and across the pasture at Layla’s house—again. Tom’s car was still there, and she didn’t want to intrude. She was happy for Layla and hoped things worked out for her and Tom, but right now she sure needed Layla’s blunt honesty. Layla would tell her what to do.
Finally, around noon, Tom’s car was gone. Layla might have gone with him somewhere, but Darlene grabbed her cell phone to find out. When Layla answered, Darlene hesitantly asked if she was home. When Layla said yes, Darlene invited herself over. Fifteen minutes later, she was on Layla’s couch telling her everything.
“It’s terrible that I went through his phone records and his briefcase and everything, isn’t it?” Darlene laid her head back against Layla’s couch and closed her eyes, waiting for Layla to tell her that she was perfectly justified.
“I don’t understand why you don’t just ask him about it.” Layla crossed one leg over the other in the chair across from her. Once again, she looked like the movie star she once was, dressed in a bright-red halter sundress with lipstick that matched the dress perfectly. Her hair was long and loose below her shoulders, and she kicked one of her bare feet back and forth, the color of her toenails the same color red as her fingernails. Darlene didn’t think she could ever look that glamorous, and it seemed to come so naturally to Layla. Even when Layla was in her blue jeans, work shirt, and boots, she was beautiful. And today, there was an aura of calm surrounding her. Her voice was softer, she spoke slower, and her movements weren’t as sharp and quick as they usually were. Darlene felt terrible for dumping all this on her friend, but Layla was all she had. Now, more than ever.
“I’m afraid of what he’ll tell me,” she finally said, then swallowed hard.
Layla looked at her long and hard. “Tom cheated on me once, a few years after Marissa was born.”
“So what happened?”
Layla shook her head. “Biggest fight we ever had. I threw things, punched him in the chest, and cried until I didn’t have any more tears.” She paused. “Then I forgave him.”
Darlene raised an eyebrow. “Just like that? You forgave him?”
“We lived a crazy life back then.” She gazed off for a few moments before she looked back at Darlene. “Opportunities to be bad were abundant. But I knew deep down that Tom loved me, and I wanted us to stay a family, to raise Marissa together. And no . . . I didn’t forgive him just like that. It was hard to trust him for a long time.” She paused again. “I punished him for probably longer than I should have, but . . . eventually we grew back into the couple we’d been before. Then . . .” Layla got up and walked to the hutch against the wall. She picked up a picture of Marissa. “Then I just couldn’t look at him after Marissa died. I blamed him. I blamed me. I blamed God. And he did the same thing.”
“But things are good now?” Darlene wondered if she and Brad would fall apart and eventually make things right. She wasn’t sure she’d survive all that.
Layla brought the picture to her heart, pressed it there for a while, then put it back on the hutch. She turned to Darlene and slowly walked back to the chair and sat down. “Yes. Things are good. It doesn’t mean we will get back together, but we are in a good place.”
Darlene nodded. “So what do I do about me and Brad?”
“Talk to him.”
“I can’t. I’m afraid.” She blinked back tears.
“What are you most afraid of?”
She thought about the question. “That . . . that he