There had been a time when all she ever wanted was exactly what seemed so damned unsatisfying right now: handsome husband who worked hard and provided for her. Cute little house surrounded by a white picket fence, with a flowerbed in the front yard. Friendly neighbors. Block parties in the summer.
Greg worked for one of the biggest luxury new car dealerships in Boston, and although still relatively young at thirty-four, had made steady progress climbing the employment ranks, particularly for someone with no formal education beyond high school. A whiz with anything mechanical, he’d started working at the dealership three days after graduation, and before the age of thirty had been made service manager for the entire place.
It was an impressive accomplishment, and the money was good, and three years ago they’d decided their financial footing was solid enough to allow Brenna to quit her job as a schoolteacher and stay home fulltime. She would get pregnant and they would begin raising a family, and after a few more years of socking away as much cash as possible they would sell the cute little house with the picket fence and the flowerbed and the friendly neighbors, and build their dream home—their “forever home,” Greg called it—out west, somewhere off the Mass Pike.
That was the plan they’d developed three years ago.
Since then there had been a string of disappointments each month, as the couple with the intention to start a family seemed unable to do so. A series of treatments offered by a series of different fertility experts had yielded little in the way of progress but plenty in the way of high-priced treatment, and still no baby.
Then Brenna discovered Greg’s affair. He’d been sleeping with one of the administrative chicks at the dealership, on and off since before Brenna and Greg even met. Greg seemed to believe the fact that he’d known Cindy longer disqualified the relationship as a real affair, or at least that was one of the ridiculous arguments he’d tried to float.
To Brenna the situation was nothing more than a cliché, a nasty little scenario that was as infuriating as it was humiliating, and after awhile she decided she’d had enough of crying into her pillow. She would turn the tables on Greg with an affair of her own.
There was a fitness instructor at her gym who Brenna had always thought paid more attention to her than was strictly necessary, and although she was nervous as hell and felt more than a little silly doing it, she came on to him, holding his gaze while he was working with her, squeezing his hand or forearm in appreciation after a strong workout session.
It was so easy.
Before long they were seeing each other all the time. The dude was a hipster with a man-bun and a physique that put Greg’s to shame, and he was even pretty damned good in bed.
For a while Brenna managed to ignore the fact that her life had become a cliché, her situation every bit as nasty—and predictable—as Greg’s. Bored housewife strikes up relationship with handsome stranger to pass the time while philandering workaholic husband remains oblivious.
But there was one problem, and it was a big one: none of it was what Brenna wanted. She couldn’t care less about the hipster with the great body. She’d only begun sleeping with the guy to force a reaction from Greg, and when a little time went by and he didn’t notice, she intentionally became careless about hiding her indiscretion.
She would continue to chat on their home phone with the hipster fitness instructor even after Greg arrived home at night, daring her husband to overhear.
She would leave incriminating texts up on her cell and then forget the damned thing where Greg might find it, daring her husband to check it.
She would return home long after Greg’s arrival from work, smelling like the hipster’s cologne, daring her husband to notice.
Eventually, of course, he did. It took much longer than it should have, but eventually he noticed.
The satisfaction Brenna had longed for didn’t accompany his discovery of her affair. It resulted only in pointed fingers and angry words and more tears, always more tears, as each partner accused the other of trying to sabotage their relationship and torpedo the marriage.
Suddenly all the things that had seemed so important to Brenna went out the window, and taking their place were awkward silences, accusing stares and sleepless nights, often spent by one or the other on the couch.
It was exhausting.
At last, Greg finished his breakfast. He dropped his silverware on the plate with a clatter and then rose and carried the dishes to the sink, where he—predictably—dropped them into the basin with another even louder clatter. He stalked across the kitchen, offering a tight-lipped smile at Brenna as he did, and said, “Thanks for breakfast, it was good.”
Then he grabbed his jacket and draped it over his arm. Showers were in the forecast for later.
He returned down the hallway and gave Brenna a quick peck on the cheek that was more painful than if he’d done nothing at all.
Then he walked out the door without saying goodbye.
The tears started before his car he had even finished backing out of the driveway.
2
Derek had fallen into drug use almost by accident. A shy, scrawny, awkward kid with little self-confidence who didn’t feel as though he fit in anywhere, he had eventually gravitated toward the delinquents smoking cigarettes behind the Dumpsters as a high school freshman.
By the end of ninth grade he was drinking heavily on weekends, and midway through sophomore year he’d begun bringing vodka to school in a water bottle. Weed came next, like night follows day, and when Derek was offered pills at a party during the summer between sophomore and junior years, he accepted without hesitation.
Also without a clue what he was swallowing.
By that point he didn’t care. He would have ingested anything. He loved the sensation of getting
