After rekindling her relationships with old friends, Jillian began to feel a glimmer of the independence and vitality she once possessed, albeit feeling like a stranger in a vast new world. Her social calendar slowly filled up with dinners, theater outings, and even, at the insistence of her more adventurous friends, the occasional visit to chic nightclubs that catered to a clientele too youthful for her comfort. These outings were exhilarating in a way she hadn't anticipated—not so much for the social aspect which tended to bore her, but for the quiet rebellion they represented. She was no longer just Michael's wife or Jonathan's mother; she was, for a few fleeting hours, a woman again— seen, alive and indepedent. Regardless, her friends knew that she was unhappy.
And yet, in the dark corners of her mind, Jillian found herself toying with the idea of doing what Michael had done. The betrayal had left a scar she couldn't hide, not even from herself. It pulsed with every casual touch he gave her, every empty apology. The thought of revenge, of stepping outside the bounds of their marriage, flitted in and out of her consciousness, sometimes like a harmless daydream, and other times with a more pressing intensity.
Her friend Monica Buttigieg, an enigmatic woman whose smile always seemed to hold secrets, had been her guide into this world of possibilities. Married with two kids, Monica had confessed one evening over Prosecco, her voice low and conspiratorial, that she had indulged in brief, meaningless affairs—one-night stands during business trips, carefully compartmentalized moments that didn't infringe on her family life. "It's just… something to keep the excitement alive," Monica had said with a shrug, as if it were no more consequential than buying a new dress.
Monica's casualness gnawed at Jillian's moral core, but it also intrigued her. Was that what women like them did when marital passion faded, when the betrayals piled up and the monotony of marriage became suffocating? The thought lingered in her mind for days afterward, the temptation swelling whenever she found herself standing before the mirror, slipping into a new dress—one with a deep, plunging neckline that she had picked up out of rebellion, and not for its aesthetic appeal. It clung to her body like a second skin, exposing hidden curves and the occassional incuse of her nipples, when worn without a bra. But whenever she wore one out, it was always under the protection of a long coat, the provocativeness hidden, but not entirely out of reach.
There were a few moments—brief, electric encounters—when naïve flirtation danced just on the edge of something more. She would catch the eye of a stranger across the bar, his gaze lingering a little too long, or find herself leaning in a little closer to some man, their short conversations filled with a playful tension that was unmistakably dangerous. The thrill of it was intoxicating, the power it gave her a bittersweet reminder of her painful marriage. And yet, Jillian never crossed that invisible line. She never slipped her phone number to any of the men she met, no matter how many drinks they shared or how much their eyes promised, and she always pointed out the fact that she was married if someone showed too much interest.
There was a flicker of desire in her—an angry, vengeful part of her that whispered she should do it, that she deserved it after everything Michael had done. But something always pulled her back, restrained her. It wasn't morality, exactly, but a deeper sense of herself that wouldn't allow it. She wasn't Monica, flitting through affairs with a sense of detachment. Jillian, for all her pain and disillusionment, still clung to something in her marriage, something she wasn't quite ready to destroy. And though the thought of infidelity dangled before her, seductive and tantalizing, she could never quite take the leap.
On more than one occasion, she returned home late, smelling of expensive perfume and faint traces of alcohol, only to find Michael sitting in the living room, his face cast in the cold glow of his laptop screen. He would close it gently as she walked in, obviously waiting for her, his eyes sharp and questioning. "Where were you all night, Jill?" he would ask, his tone casual but laced with accusation. "A bit overdressed for a gallery opening, huh?"
Jillian never flinched. She met his gaze head-on, a quiet fury simmering beneath her skin. She had nothing to be ashamed of because she had done nothing wrong. His hypocrisy gnawed at her—his audacity to question her whereabouts after what he had done. But as much as she wanted to throw his infidelity in his face, to strip away the façade of their marriage and let it all unravel, she never did. Instead, she would calmly tell him the truth about where she was and who she was out with, and then casually head upstairs, feeling the bitter frustration churn in her chest, angry not just at him, but at herself for not doing the very thing she was implicitly accused of.
Once, after a particularly passive-agressive confrontation, Jillian found herself in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at her own reflection, her lips trembling with rage. "Next time," she whispered to herself, her voice sharp, almost venomous. "Next time you'll go home with someone."
But the next time came and went, and she didn't. Something in her always held back, kept her from going through with it. She would return home with the same empty feeling, as if she had betrayed herself by not betraying him. It was a strange, twisted dance, the two of them locked in a silent war of unspoken accusations and unresolved hurt. Michael's affair had been a fracture in their marriage, a fault line that neither of them knew how to mend, and Jillian's nights out had become her way of walking the edge of that fracture, daring herself to fall, but always pulling back at the last moment.
The line between desire and revenge was blurred for her, and yet, despite everything, she remained tethered to the life they had built—a life that, despite its cracks, was still her life. And for reasons she couldn't entirely explain, she wasn't ready to destroy it just yet.
The car moved slowly, as if reluctant to disturb the peacefulness of the sleepy coastal town they had finally reached. The streets were narrow and winding, lined with old stone buildings that seemed to have been asleep for centuries. Michael navigated their car through a maze of quiet roads, the hum of the engine a soft background to the sound of waves in the distance. The air was thick with salt, warm and heavy, the kind that clung to your skin and reminded you of summers long past.
As they drove further from the town center, the houses became fewer and farther apart. The GPS led them toward the outskirts, where their home for the next three weeks awaited them—a large, 19th-century stone house, hidden away from the world. They had chosen this getaway deliberately, opting for something intimate, secluded, far from the crowded all-inclusive resorts and tourist traps. Jillian had insisted on it, wanting a space where they could reconnect—if that was still possible.
When they arrived, the house stood before them, majestic and solitary, behind a tall stone wall and a wrought-iron gate. Michael parked the car, and for a moment, none of them moved. They simply sat there, taking in the quiet beauty of the place. Beyond the gate, a lush garden stretched out, filled with lemon and lime trees whose fragrance permeated the air. A small stone pathway led from the garden to a maze, and Jillian imagined herself wandering there in the evenings, losing herself in its twists and turns. The maze eventually opened up to outdoor showers, where they could wash off the salt from the sea, only steps away from the beach that lay beyond the house.
Michael stepped out first, grabbing the keys to the house. Jonathan followed, too absorbed by his phone to appreciate the wider surroundings. Jillian lingered for a moment longer in the car, watching her husband and son as they moved toward the house. The weight of the past months pressed down on her. Michael had promised this vacation would be different—that it would be a time to relax, to reset, but Jillian wasn't sure. Still, she hoped.
They ascended the stone steps that led to the house, their suitcases trailing behind them. The front door opened into a spacious living room, tastefully decorated with leather sofas, antique furniture, and a dark wooden bar that reminded Jillian of her late grandfather's cigar room. Jonathan disappeared almost immediately, heading upstairs to search for the Wi-Fi password. The first floor was his domain—his sanctuary for the next three weeks—while the second floor was reserved for Jillian and Michael. Their suite was large and airy, with windows that looked out onto the ocean, the sound of waves constant and soothing.
They unpacked in silence, each of them retreating to their respective roles: Michael, already thinking about the work he had brought with him, Jonathan, eager to connect with his friends online, and Jillian, feeling a familiar emptiness settle over her. This was supposed to be their escape, their time to rediscover what had been lost between them, but Jillian couldn't shake the feeling that they had brought the very thing they were trying to escape with them.
The days drifted by in slow succession, each one much like the last. Michael spent his mornings on conference calls, his laptop always nearby. He promised it wouldn't be much work, and Jillian believed he meant it, but the weight of his career always loomed over them. When he wasn't working, he cooked—something he hadn't done in years. Jillian watched as he lost himself in chopping vegetables, stirring sauces, plating meals with a care that felt both familiar and foreign. It reminded her of the early years of their relationship, before the success.
Jonathan was rarely around, spending his days on the beach, sunburnt despite Jillian's warnings to avoid the midday sun. He was growing up fast, she thought, watching him from the kitchen window as he played in the sand with strangers, his laughter carried on the breeze. He was pulling away, just as Michael had. Soon, she feared, she would be completely alone.
In the afternoons, when the heat was too much, Jillian would retreat to the garden with a book and a glass of wine. The lemon trees provided shade, and the sound of the ocean was a constant comfort. She found herself thinking about the life she had left behind—her career, her independence. Sometimes, she even wondered what her life would have been like if she hadn't met Michael.
It was on one such afternoon, as she sat under the lemon trees, that Michael came to her, his phone in hand. He had just finished a call, and there was a hint of excitement in his voice that she hadn't heard in a while.
"The Maples are going to stop by tomorrow," he said casually, as though it were nothing.
Jillian's heart sank a little. The Maples—William and Kayla—were old friends from the days when Michael had first started out in publishing. William, in particular, had been a significant figure in Michael's early career, working for the same publishing house where Michael had gotten his start, albeit being much higher up the corporate ladder than Michael. Jillian had never liked William. He was boastful, arrogant, and after a few drinks, he had a way of making flirtatious comments that left her feeling uncomfortable. He was physically attractive, there was no denying that, but she found his charm hollow, a mask for something darker.
It had been years since they'd last seen the Maples. They had moved to the coast nine years ago, settling in a town not far from where they were now. The plan was for them to go out together for dinner, to catch up. Michael seemed excited about it, while Jonathan, who barely remembered the Maples, shrugged in indifference. Jillian wasn't sure how she felt. The idea of seeing Kayla again was pleasant enough—they had always gotten along—but William… William was another matter entirely.
She thought back to the last time they had all been together, before the move. William had made a particularly inappropriate comment that night, something about how she was "too beautiful to be wasted on just one man." Michael had been too drunk to notice, or maybe he had chosen not to. Either way, Jillian had never forgotten it, and she wasn't eager to relive that discomfort.
At the same time, there was a small part of her, a rebellious part, that thought a night out with the Maples might be exactly what she needed.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the garden, and the air was still warm, but with the coolness that hinted at evening's approach. Jillian, feeling the familiar tightness of sun-drenched skin and wearing only her bathing suit after a day at the beach, decided it was time to clean up before heading to a little vintage wine shop she had spotted on the drive into town. Her and Kayla's tradition was something she looked forward to—a playful rebellion against outdated norms. The guest, not the host was on the receiving end of wine. This time, she wanted to pick out something special, something that symbolized their friendship, a fine wine that spoke more than words could.
Jillian always considered Kayla a friend, not just an acquaintance married to one of Michael's co-workers. They saw eye to eye on most things and had wonderful conversations, but in hindsight, Jillian realized that she never fully embraced Kayla, she never fully opened up to her.
She glanced at her watch, her pulse quickening slightly. Time was slipping by, and knowing Michael's penchant for lateness, she didn't want to run behind. Her shorts and t-shirt lay draped over one of the garden chairs, just within reach. The thought of going upstairs to shower crossed her mind, but then she'd have to clean the sand from her feet before entering the house, towel off in the bathroom, and change—too many steps for someone who was already feeling pressed for time. The outdoor shower would do. Just a quick rinse to wash off the salt from the day at the beach. She would take a proper shower later when getting ready for the dinner party.
She walked through the stone maze. The sound of the waves faded behind her as she approached the showers, the cold water a sharp contrast to the heat of the day. As she stepped under the stream, goosebumps immediately covered her skin, the water shocking but welcome. She reached behind her back, untying her bikini top and letting it drop. The cold water hit her bare chest, drenching her glistening body as she closed her eyes, momentarily losing herself in the sensation of the salt washing away. It was liberating, standing there in the open air, under the sky.
Meanwhile, down on the beach, Jonathan was finishing up a game of beach volleyball with a group of local kids. His skin stung slightly from the light burns he'd gotten earlier in the week, and the salt was beginning to irritate him. They had planned to grab burgers at a pool bar just down the road, but he needed a quick rinse first. He told the boys he'd meet them there in a few minutes, then made his way toward the outdoor showers. He figured he'd have the place to himself—after all, his parents always used the showers in the house. The outdoor one was his territory, a space where he could cool off after long days on the beach.
As he passed through the stone maze, the sound of running water caught him off guard. For a second, he wondered if one of his new friends had come up to use the shower, but that didn't seem right. He had just left them, so how could have they made their way to the showers before him? He had allowed one of them to use the showers a few days prior, yes, but only after the boy had asked him. This time none of them did. His curiosity piqued, he turned the final corner of the maze and froze in place.
There, under the stream of freezing water, was his mother. She stood topless, her back toward him, completely unaware of his presence. His first instinct was to turn and leave—this was an accident, something that shouldn't have happened, something he shouldn't see. But something in him held him in place, a mix of shock and confusion. His heart raced, and he felt a strange, twisted sense of embarrassment and excitement bubbling inside him, a combination of emotions he didn't understand.
The sight of her was uncomfortable, unnerving. His eyes darted between the maze's exit and the shower, trying to decide what to do. But before he could make a move, Jillian turned around, her eyes still closed, her face catching the brunt of the cold water. Her breasts and hardened nipples were fully exposed now, and Jonathan, frozen in his spot, couldn't seem to tear himself away.
Jillian sensed something, a presence. She opened her eyes slightly, at first thinking it was a trick of the light, maybe a shadow cast by the maze's stone walls. But then she opened them fully, her breath catching as she saw him—Jonathan, standing there, staring. Time seemed to slow, each second stretching into an eternity as her mind raced to process the situation.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The water poured down over her skin, her thoughts a jumble of confusion and shame. She felt a deep embarrassment that she hadn't known in years, and yet, in this strange moment, she was unable to act quickly enough to stop it. Jonathan's eyes were locked on her, a look of discomfort and something else—something Jillian didn't want to name—on his face. She couldn't tell if he was more horrified or mesmerized, but the weight of his stare felt unbearable. Instinctively, she lowered her gaze and noticed a large protrusion in his swimming trunks, an obvious erection that was visible even from afar.
In a sharp, instinctive motion, Jillian turned her back to him, her breath caught in her throat, pretending that she did not see him. Jonathan snapped out of his daze, realizing what had just happened. He was not sure whether she had seen him, but he suspected the worst. His face flushed crimson as he quickly turned on his heel and bolted back through the maze, his feet stumbling on the uneven stones.
Jillian stood under the shower, water still running down her skin, but now she felt no relief from the coolness. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she pressed her hands to her face, willing the moment to disappear, to be erased somehow. What had just happened? What had her son seen, and why did his body react the way it did?
She fumbled to retie her bikini top, her fingers shaking as she gathered her things and rushed back to the house, her mind in turmoil. Jonathan would go out with his friends, no doubt trying to bury the embarrassment of the encounter in the noise and laughter of the evening. But Jillian knew that the silence of the night would bring the weight of what had just transpired crashing back down on them both. But first, the Maples.