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Chapter Nine
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Darien wiped her hands on the kitchen towel, keeping her eyes focused on the task rather than the man who had just entered through the front door. The weekend bag landed with a thud against the hardwood.
"You're back early," she said, not turning around.
Tom hung his coat on the rack by the door. "Caught an extra supply run."
The mundane exchange felt brittle, like ice too thin to support their weight.
"The kids are at your father's," she said. "He took them for the night. I thought it might be . . . easier. For us to talk."
Tom nodded, and shuffled to kitchen's threshold. "Makes sense."
These past few weeks they'd maintained a choreography that exchanged pertinent information about the children and nothing else. Darien felt herself straining against the silence that had become their new language.
"Did you eat?" she asked.
"Before I left."
More silence. The questions she wanted to ask burned in her throat. Tonight was supposed to be about paperwork. About timelines and logistics. About dismantling their life together with the same methodical care they'd used to build it. Yet the real questions haunted her.
"I put sheets on the guest bed," she said.
"Thank you."
Darien busied herself folding the kitchen towel into precise thirds. The action gave her hands something to do while she searched for words that wouldn't reveal too much.
"I spoke with a few attorneys this week," she said, finally turning to face him.
Tom stood at the edge of the kitchen, that invisible boundary line they'd established without discussion. His lips pursed almost imperceptibly. "What did they say?"
"The courts are backed up. With everything that's happened . . . " She didn't need to elaborate. The pandemic had disrupted every facet of life. "Because of Ashley and Sam, we need to be legally separated for twelve months before we can file."
Tom nodded, absorbing the information with the same composed expression he wore every time she caught a press briefing on CNN. "I see."
"And we'll need a formal property agreement and custody arrangement to submit with the filing." She leaned against the counter, needing its solidity. "The attorney I liked best thinks we can have that ready in a couple of weeks."
"Who gets what?" His voice was level, practical.
"You should take the savings for a place in D.C." The words felt like gravel in her throat. "Since that's where you'll be based now."
Was there already a place? A condo or apartment where dark, voluminous hair spread across a pillow? Where Tom slid into bed not out of duty but desire?
"Keep the house," he said flatly. "The finances stay as they are. I'll transfer what I need for living expenses, but everything else stays put."
Of course he would say that. Captain Perfect, doing the honorable thing even in divorce. "That's too generous, Tom."
"It's fair." His gaze held hers steadily. "You'll be raising the kids most of the time. If you don't have any desire to relocate then they should stay in their home."
A surge of irrational anger flooded her veins. Why couldn't he fight her on this? On anything? It would be so much easier if he'd show some resentment or bitterness, anything to justify the ending of thirteen years of marriage.
"How's D.C. treating you?"
Tom shifted his weight. "Busy. Lot of meetings. A lot of rebuilding to do."
"I'm sure." Darien leaned against the counter. "How's the team adjusting?"
The question hung between them, its real meaning dangling like bait. She watched his face for any flicker of understanding, any tell that would confirm her suspicions.
Tom crossed his arms. "What are you really asking, Darien?"
"Nothing," she said too quickly. "Just making conversation."
"No, you're not."
The bluntness startled her. "Fine." She straightened her spine. "Have you told her about us? About the divorce?"
"No. She has nothing to do with this."
This was the first real emotion he'd shown since the night she'd asked for the divorce. For weeks he'd accepted her coolness without challenge, her remarks without retort. Of all the topics that could have broken through his infuriating accommodations, of course it was her questioning his relationship with Sasha.
"Really? Nothing to do with it? That's interesting considering she's the reason that we're standing here discussing divorce."
"That's not—"
"Oh my god, don't you dare pretend this isn't exactly what you wanted! What you've always wanted. Free to run back to her without the inconvenience of a wife and kids!"
"You asked for the divorce, Darien. Not me."
His words landed like a slap. Technically true, yet so deliberately missing the point that Darien wanted to scream.
"What choice did I have!? Was I supposed to stay married to a man who's in love with someone else? Just ignore the other woman in our relationship for another thirteen years?"
Tom raked a hand through his hair. "For God's sake, Darien. Sasha hasn't been in our relationship. She's been nowhere near our marriage."
"Of course she has! In your head! Where it counts!"
"That's my failing," he said, his voice dropping. "Mine alone."
Darien gave a bitter laugh. "And now what? You expect me to believe that you're not planning to get back with her once the papers are signed? That she's not just waiting for you in D.C.?"
His stare went cold. "You're making a lot of assumptions about what Sasha would want."
"Am I?" Darien's throat tightened.
"She's rebuilding intelligence networks across six continents. I'd say she has a lot more to do with her day than sit around pining," Tom shot back.
Darien froze, staring at him. He'd always let the comments slide, changing the subject or offering a noncommittal grunt. Now, suddenly, he was standing in their kitchen fighting for Sasha's honor.
"Well," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. "This is new."
"What?"
"You. Defending her." Darien gestured vaguely. "All these years, anytime I said something about her, you just let it go. Now suddenly you're her champion?"
"I'm not her champion! I'm just telling you the truth. Sasha has nothing to do with our marriage falling apart. That's on me. Not her."
The kitchen fell silent. Darien studied his face, searching for the lie, the hidden agenda. But all she found was exhaustion, regret, and that same stubborn integrity that had both attracted her to him and driven her crazy for years.
"You really haven't told her," Darien said, not a question this time.
"No."
"Why not?" The question felt raw, exposed.
Tom looked away, his gaze fixing on some middle distance. "Because it would be selfish."
"Selfish," Darien repeated.
"To dump my failed marriage at her feet. To make her feel responsible when she isn't."
Darien's laugh came out hollow. "Oh so now you're protecting her again."
"I'm being honest," Tom said. "Something I should have been with you from the beginning."
"Of course," Darien said, her voice acidic. "Of course you're worried about being selfish when it comes to Sasha. Heaven forbid she feel bad about anything, we wouldn't want to upset the great love of your life."
Tom's eyes flashed with something she rarely saw. The cords in his neck stood out as his jaw set. For a moment, he looked like he might simply walk out, and part of Darien almost wished he would. But then he stepped forward, his voice low and controlled.
"You know what? I can't win here." He braced his hands on the back of a kitchen chair. "If I'd told her about us separating, you'd be standing here accusing me of running to her the first chance I go, but since I haven't told her, you're pissed about that too." His voice rose with each word. "Tell me what the right answer is here."
"There is no right answer," she snapped.
"Exactly. You're mad that I haven't told her, but you'd be just as mad if I had. What you really want is for her to feel guilty because you think she deserves to."
"She does!"
"No. She doesn't. Sasha didn't deserve me telling her I'd wait and then marrying you any more than you deserved being married to someone who wasn't completely honest with you. Neither of you deserved any of this."
The words hit like a bucket of cold water. Darien opened her mouth to argue, but nothing came out. He was right, and that realization stuck in her throat. She turned away from him, bracing her hands against the edge of the sink. How had they gotten here? One moment they were calmly discussing property, logistics and finances, and the next they were fighting about a woman Tom hadn't actually been with, yet whose existence had done more damage than if he'd carried on a decade-long habit of in-port affairs.
At least that would be comprehensible. A betrayal she could point to. Explain. Mike and Christine had weathered actual infidelity better than this — this ghostly third presence that had haunted them from the beginning.
"What am I supposed to tell people?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.
"What?"
She turned back to him. "When people ask why we're getting divorced. What do I say?" She hated the crack in her voice. "That my husband's been in love with someone else? That he never cheated, that he's been a good father, a decent husband, but I just couldn't compete with a memory?"
Tom's expression softened. "You don't need to explain anything to anyone."
"Tom you're famous! So is she! You're entire relationship is about to become a congressional record! It's going to be completely obvious that she's involved when the press sees the court filings and looks at the timing!"
Tom crossed the kitchen and pulled out a chair at the table. "Sit down," he said, his voice gentler than it had been moments before. "Please."
Her face burned. Here she was, practically forty-six years old, and falling apart over what people might think of her. But it wasn't just about her. "Ashley and Sam are going to hear things. Kids at school. Parents. The Norfolk Navy community is small, and that's before we even get to the media circus."
"I know," Tom said quietly. "I am sorry, Darien. I never imagined that things would turn out this way."
The urge to ask why lodged in her throat again, the singular question upon which she'd spiraled almost endlessly since the ceremony. Why couldn't he just let this woman go?
Tom sighed, his face drawn. "We could delay the paperwork . . . if the courts are backed up and we have to wait twelve months anyway, what's a few more so everyone has enough time to adjust? The media cycle moves fast. Something else will capture their attention after the hearings have passed."
"Not in Norfolk. Not in a Navy town." Darien brushed her hair back roughly. "Do you know what it's like? The constant judgment? The way the other wives evaluate every decision, every comment? It's like living in a fishbowl." As the comment left, Darien realized that in his own way, of course Tom did, but he merely listened. He'd always been good at that. Knowing when she wanted to vent rather than be offered solutions.
"Maybe relocating does make sense. We can start over, " she mumbled.
"You shouldn't have to uproot your life because of my mistakes."
"What life? My entire identity has been as your wife, Tom. As Ashley and Sam's mother." The realization hit her with unexpected force. "I don't even know who Darien Jerome is anymore."
Tom studied her, his eyes holding none of the distance she'd grown accustomed to. Just sadness and genuine concern.
In her mind, Darien pictured what the future might look like. A smaller house, perhaps. Something she could manage on her own. Ashley and Sam would need separate rooms, smaller than what they were used to, but they'd adjust. Weekends with their father. Holidays split between them. She imagined a Christmas morning without Tom, and the thought pierced her, but there would be advantages too. A clean break. New friends who wouldn't know her as Tom Chandler's wife. No pitying looks at the commissary or speculating about what went wrong. A chance for Ashley and Sam to attend a school not as "Tom Chandler's kids" but as themselves.
"Falls Church might work," she said quietly. "Or Fairfax."
Tom nodded. "Those would be good options. The housing authority's been prioritizing families with children," he said. "Especially around the capital region. I can put in a word with the committee handling redistribution"—Darien wrapped her arms around herself while Tom continued—"and there's plenty of administrative positions around D.C."
The casual way he said it made her throat tighten. Thirteen years she'd dedicated to their family, to supporting his career. Now she'd be starting over, competing with thousands of other displaced workers.
"The school systems there are operational?" she asked.
"Better than most. Power's stable, water's clean. It's safe. They've consolidated, but they're functioning."
"And what about the house? What are we supposed to do with it?"
"We can hold onto it until for another six months. Wait and see how the market recovers once the new banking act has passed," he suggested.
Darien nodded mechanically.
"I'm not going to fight you on this, Darien," he added gently. "Whatever you think is best for you and the kids, I'll support it."
The words should have brought relief, but they only emphasized the finality of it all. She'd pictured many versions of this conversation over the years, usually after an argument or when things had been strained, but never once had she truly believed that they would reach this point. She cleared her throat, blinking away the stubborn moisture, instead pulling over the custody template she'd printed off, trying not to imagine their children's faces tomorrow when they learned about the divorce.