The internet is an amazing place for cooking recipes, watching cat videos, and finding out your husband is a filthy, lying cheater.
My mouth is dry as I punch in fake details and my credit card number to access the OnlyFans account that was sent to me. The thumbnail is so clearly him, but I need to know for sure, because there’s that tiny part of me that can’t accept it.
My heartbeat picks up as his page loads and …
Fuck.
A quick scroll shows, well, way too many videos. This isn’t a one-off.
The most recent is date-stamped yesterday.
Yesterday.
I don’t know if he fucked this guy yesterday or just uploaded the video, but either way, this was obviously on his mind while we spent the morning together. Right before he went to the gym.
Is this guy “Jim”?
And because I must be dead in the brain, I tap on the video.
That fucking. Mother. Fucker.
I’m an understanding, open-minded guy. If Kyle had come to me and told me he wanted to do porn, we could have talked about it. I might have watched. I might have done it with him. If he’d wanted an open relationship, it’s something we could have discussed …
But when Kyle shoves the other man onto the bed and roughly pushes inside him, I see red.
Not totally because of the cheating, though that’s making me pretty fucking ragey.
Or seeing him with another man.
But because I’ve suggested a few times over the years that he top me and he’s always said no.
He hates it.
It doesn’t feel right.
We rarely have penetrative sex at all anymore.
And yet …
I scroll through his page and find videos dating back two years.
My stomach rolls.
Two years of that asshole cheating. Two years of him doing with other men what he’d never do with me.
We are done.
I force myself to watch another three scenes, to watch his orgasm face and the way he smacks the other men around, and I let my rage build.
And build.
And wonder if he’s out there, right now, with his dick in some guy.
The thought crosses my mind to go and film myself fucking someone else and send it to him, but I’m not so convinced he’d care. And the thought of retaliating that way makes me sick.
But I have to do something.
Revenge is burning through my blood.
Pumping so hot and thick through me that it sets off a ringing in my ears and makes it difficult to think.
I stalk into the bathroom, grab his toothbrush, and drop it into the toilet, where I take a photo of it before popping it back in the cupboard.
But it’s not enough.
My gaze lands on his laptop, charging on the side table, and fuck, was he lying in bed beside me last night, reading the comments on his OnlyFans?
My hands shake, and I stalk over to it, tug it off the charger, and open the top. The password screen blinks at me, and it only takes a few attempts to get the right one. That’s how well I know him. A man I’ve spent twelve years with.
Well …
I thought I knew him.
When I get to the OnlyFans site, his username and password are pre-saved, and a second later, I’m in.
All his filthy secrets are at my fingertips.
He has a ton of unread messages, and I know I shouldn’t do it, but I click over to them anyway. Hundreds of different men, dick pics exchanged, dirty talk and cybersex, and … my heart squeezes. Messages arranging hookups.
… wait until my husband is at work …
I shove the laptop off me and suck down a breath, trying to stop the rising vomit. It’s a struggle to hold on to my anger when betrayal and embarrassment are attempting to take over instead.
My nostrils flare, but I refuse to cry over this asshole.
He’s not fucking worth it.
My head knows that, but my heart is struggling to catch up.
I grab his laptop again, find the Go Live option, and turn it on.
My face is reflected back at me, and I look wrecked. Fuck it.
“To everyone subscribed, this is the page for my husband, Kyle Rousle, and despite being married for five years now, I’ve only just found out it exists. So thank you for subscribing to two years’ worth of evidence of my husband cheating on me.” I rattle off his phone number. “Feel free to give him a piece of your mind or to arrange hookups, but now that he’s single, it might not be as hot for him. Also, he chews with his mouth open, talks like an obnoxious monkey, and apparently has issues with commitment.” I wink. “Real catch.”
Then I end the video, walk out onto the balcony of our fourth-floor apartment, and drop the laptop over the edge. It hits the ground with a satisfying crack, but the silence that follows is stifling.
I stare down at the broken computer like I’m staring at our shattered relationship, and I’m hit with an overwhelming sense of grief.
There’s no staying with him, and facing the end of a twelve-year relationship is a complete mindfuck.
How do we split our things?
Work out joint finances?
Finances? Screw him. He must have a secret bank account with the number of subscribers he’s got, so I’m clearing our accounts out.
I pack everything I can into my car, knowing I have a couple of hours until he’s finished work.
Shit … I’m going to need to get tested.
The thought hits me out of nowhere and sends me spiraling.
If that son of a bitch has given me something …
A sob builds, and no matter how much I try and swallow against it, my vision blurs.
I block his number in my phone, then flee the house before he’s home. There’s no way I can face him.
I leave, brokenhearted and at a loss.
What the fuck do I do now?
The drive from Boston to Kilborough, the town I grew up in, takes a bit under two hours. We’re located in Hampden County, in the foothills of the Provin Mountain. It’s been a while since I visited, the last time being for my niece’s birthday, and that fucker was with me.
I push the anger back.
I promised myself by the time I got to my brother’s, I will have put it behind me, which seems laughable as I make my way through town. Two hours isn’t enough to erase over a decade of memories.
The thing is, I should hate him. And I do. But I also miss him already, and I’m glad I blocked his number when I did, because I’m not so sure that if he called and begged me to come back that I’d be strong enough to say no.
Kilborough is a tourist town. Right now, it’s the off-season, but in a month, the place will pick up again. Winter is our only downtime, with summer being crazy and Halloween having sold out accommodation all week long.
It never used to be that way apparently, but forty-five years ago, they closed the massive prison here, and all the people who worked there moved away. Now, the prison and surrounding “ghost” town are a hot location for people who crave being terrified to come to.
The rest of Kilborough has been built around the historic site, and the whole town has embraced the theme of being a Halloween Town of sorts. With the Provin Mountain behind the prison, a walkway around the lake on one side, and farmland on the other, we’re snug in our corner of the world.
Instead of driving to Marty’s place, I change my mind at the last moment and head straight to the Kilborough Brewery. It’s a huge warehouse just off the boardwalk that serves as an axe bar, brewery, market, and café. The words “The Killer Brew” are stamped over the faded brick building.
Being midweek, the market on the other side and the café out front are both busy, but inside the brewery is quiet, missing the steady thunk that usually comes from the back room as people throw axes at a target.
There are still plenty of stools left at the long bar, and the second my butt hits the seat, I wave down the bartender and order two shots, followed by a beer to wash them down.
And as I’m sitting there, staring at the mirror over the bar, I hear my name being called.
“Payne Walker, what are you doing round these parts?”
I glance up to see the permanently cocky expression of one of my high school friends. Art de Almeida slides onto the barstool beside me, propping one elbow on the bar top, head tilted like he’s trying to figure me out.
Despite the shit day, I muster up a smile. “Hey, man. What are you doing here?”
“I run the place now. Mom and Dad took a step back and handed over the brewery.”
“Holy shit, congratulations.”
“Thanks.” His dark-lashed eyes narrow. “Why are you drinking on a weeknight?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’m in no hurry.”
It’s strange. Even though Art and I haven’t stayed in touch and we haven’t spoken in years, I’m immediately comfortable in his presence. Plus, I’m going to have to tell people eventually, so I might as well try it out now.
“I found out my husband has been cheating on me.”
“Ouch. So, we’re drinking to forget, are we?” Art asks.
“Yup.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
I grunt. Because that’s a solid no, even though I’ll have to eventually.
“Okay …”
“I just … I don’t understand. How could he do this?”
Art squeezes my arms. “Sometimes people aren’t who we think they are. Even when we’ve known them for a really long time.”
“Twelve years.” I drain my beer.
“How did you find out?”
I swallow, the sting I felt when I saw the message hitting me afresh. “Someone we work with gave me details.” Details I won’t be uttering out loud. Ever. “It was going on for a while.”
Art only stares at me, then turns to the bartender and orders two more shots. “That fucker.”
I snort with amusement, even though I feel sick, and down the shots as soon as they hit the bar top. Art orders another one for himself. The atmosphere between us relaxes, and suddenly it’s like twenty years ago, when we were thick as thieves and could talk about anything. “I think … I think I want a divorce.” And even saying the word feels like the biggest failure of my life.
“I’m so sorry. Divorce is never easy.”
I frown and suddenly remember the excitement just after I finished college when Art was one half of the first gay couple to be married in Massachusetts … and also the first to divorce. “How did you handle it?”
His lips twitch. “I went back to sleeping around and didn’t look back.”
“Not sure that’s me.”
“Well, unless you’ve changed dramatically since high school, I agree. These things take time. You’ll grow from it, but it takes a while to clear the storm clouds and see it for the blessing it is.”
Blessing? I snort again. “What the hell do I do now?”
“Do you need to figure it out this second?”
I smile glumly. “I have the rest of this week on leave from work. If I don’t go back, I’m going to have to quit. I’ll have no job, no home, and the only money I have to my name is the ten K I cleared from our account.” I rub my forehead. “I’m forty years old, and I have nothing.”
“Nope, we’re not following that path.” Art reaches over the bar to pour me another shot and presses the glass into my hand. “You’re a qualified … gym teacher, right? And didn’t you buy an apartment down there? Either kick him out or sell it. You don’t have to quit your job if you don’t want to.”
“But do I want to stay in Boston now?”
“Do you?”
“I don’t know.” My whole body feels tired. “I miss so much of my nieces growing up while I’m down there, and there’s no way I can stay in our place, knowing what he did, and I’ll never afford a place close to the city on my own.”
“You have a lot to figure out,” Art says. “If you break up or choose to stay with him. No judgment. Only you can make that call.”
“It’s already over.” I scrunch up my face. “Think I can organize the divorce without having to see that fucker’s face?”
“Of course you can. But for some totally unsolicited advice, go back, take a minute to organize your life, and see where you end up.”
What he’s saying is completely reasonable. But I don’t want reason. Only alcohol and self-pity.
“And if you do end up back in Kilborough, let me know. I started a group for guys like us.”
“Like us?”
“Divorced men. It’s a support group, and there are a fair few of us now.”
“No offense, but that sounds sad. A group of guys hanging out and trying to act like they love their lives when they’re one breakdown away from a midlife crisis.”
Art laughs loudly and slaps my back. “You would think that. Hell, most people do. And that’s the point. Society has made divorce into this twisted, negative experience when all it is, is a fresh start. The DMC is a safe space. If a guy needs to vent, he can vent. If he needs pointers for dating again, we’ve got him. A lot of splits result in friends taking sides, and it’s usually always the man who’s the bad guy—or for queer couples, there’s always one on the outer. We’re friends, we’re a listening ear, and we’re motherfucking cheerleaders when our boys find love again. Maybe you won’t need that at all. But the offer’s there if you want it.”
I might not know what my next steps are, but I do know I’m touched. “Thanks, man.” I’m not going to take him up on the offer, but I appreciate it. “I’ll let you know if I’m interested.”
