Chapter 9: Confrontation

“JESUS CHRIST, LIBERTY!” the man yells, and I recognize him instantly.

My ex-husband, Joe. He’s still in his NYPD uniform—dark blue shirt with patches on the shoulders, black tactical pants, and his badge gleaming on his chest. His belt is weighed down by the usual gear: handcuffs, a flashlight, and his service weapon. The sight of him in uniform, combined with the familiar scent of his cologne—the one I used to buy him every Christmas and birthday—makes my stomach churn.

“Joe?” I stammer, dropping the cast iron skillet. It clatters loudly against the floor. “What the hell are you doing here? How did you even get in?”

He must still have a key to our apartment—my apartment, now. I changed the locks after he left, but he somehow must have gotten a copy of the new key, probably from the building superintendent. Joe is a dirty cop, and might’ve threatened the poor man. He probably has some dirt on the guy.

Joe brushes past me in a huff, and I immediately notice the slight swagger, the unfocused look in his eyes, and the reek of alcohol on his breath. Tequila, his poison of choice, and something else… White wine?

Irritated, I march over to my fridge and swing it open. The entire bottle of expensive Chardonnay I bought to enjoy on the sofa while watching Netflix is gone, poured down the abyss of Joe’s throat.

“I can't believe you got into my wine,” I grumble through clenched teeth. “That’s stealing, you know. What sort of cop goes around stealing from people?”

“Not like I had much choice,” Joe fires back, plopping down on the sofa and immediately putting his feet up on my glass coffee table. “White wine’s a fucking sissy drink, but I had to find a way to kill the time. I’ve been waiting for hours, since nine, and now it’s midnight.”

“So?” I ask defensively.

“So?” he replies sarcastically. “Where have you been, Cinderella? Who was that dropping you off from the ball, Prince Charming? Nice car, and the guy was even wearing a suit. You dating some Wall Street banking asshole, Lib?”

“None of your business,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. Joe must have been watching from the window, seeing Agent Jones drop me off.

“I don’t need you to tell me who the guy was. I could find out,” Joe says, the threat hanging in the air as he lifts the nearly empty bottle of Chardonnay and downs the last gulp like a savage.

“Why do you even care?” I ask, clenching my fists. “You’re the one who ended our marriage, remember?”

He just shoots me a dirty look, so I continue.

“So what if I went on a date? So what if I’m seeing someone else?” My voice is rising, almost to a yell. “Why are you here, Joe?”

He sighs and fishes around in his jacket pocket, then pulls out an envelope—striped baby blue and pale pink, with my name written on the front in purple ink.

“Anne has very graciously decided to invite you to the baby shower gender reveal party,” he says flatly. “It’s on Saturday.”

Is she already that far along? It feels like just the other day that Joe left me for my cousin Anne, who at one time was my best friend. I haven’t been counting the months since they announced their pregnancy, but it seems so soon.

“So, are you coming or not?” Joe asks impatiently.

“Why the hell would I go to the baby shower of my ex and his mistress?” I snap, feeling my rage rise.

“Anne’s been upset recently, says you two were best friends, yada yada, she misses you, blah blah, won’t stop crying, so I promised her I’d get you to come,” he says, leaning back on the sofa, looking tired. “It’s not good for the babies, the stress.”

“Babies?” I repeat the word, wondering if he misspoke.

“Yeah, we’re having twin boys,” he says confidently.

“You said it’s a gender reveal…” I say.

“Yeah, they’re gonna be boys, though,” he says with absolute certainty, puffing up his chest a little. “I just have a feeling, you know? We’re naming them Hayden and Hunter.”

No. That can’t be.

“Hayden?” I hurl the word back at him, my heart hammering in my chest, blood boiling with rage. “You’re using our dead son’s name?!”

“He never got to use it because you killed him!” Joe spits out, his eyes narrowing, his words bitter and cutting.

Joe has always blamed me for the death of our unborn child, saying that I prioritized my PhD over family, and that’s why I miscarried. But I never knew just how much he hates me—wants to hurt me—until now.

“Get out!” I scream, my voice breaking.

“Fine, but just think about coming. Anne needs you. She’s still your cousin, and she was your best friend once upon a time,” Joe says, rising from the sofa.

“Best friends don’t sleep with each other’s husbands!” I scream, no longer caring if the neighbors overhear.

“Get the fuck out, right now!” I cry, the tears beginning to fall. I march to the front door, holding it open as hot tears roll down my cheeks.

Joe rolls his eyes and makes his way to the door, stopping briefly by Mr. Mittens’ food bowl to scratch behind his tail on the way out. As he walks through the doorway, he leaves me with one final, brutal parting shot.

“Coming to my sons’ baby shower is the least you can do for me, seeing as you stole my first son from me,” he snarls. “You were so fucking obsessed with your stupid experiment, as if it would bring back your piece-of-shit criminal daddy. But your jailbird daddy is never coming back, Liberty…”

I slam the door in his face, my heart pounding. Then I fall to the floor and cry.

Minutes later, I rise shakily, trying to compose myself. I stare at the invite, and to my disgust and horror, I see that they are indeed having twins. I crumple it up and throw it in the trash.

In the trash, where it belongs.