As usual, he made breakfast for Leanne, packed her lunch, did a little cleaning, then worked in the afternoon on various socials. His classes didn’t require attendance; it was all modular work, augmented with forum support and video lessons he could watch at his convenience. Sometimes he marveled at how much his life had changed. These days, he worked freelance—his contribution to Leanne’s campaign spoke for itself—and he got paid enough not to feel like a total waste of air. Therapy was helping to deal with a lot of issues he’d tried—and failed—to handle alone, mostly out of shame and fear of judgment, especially from his old man.

Living in that house really was killing me.

Apart from his mom sending a few texts early on, his family hadn’t contacted him since he moved out, and it had been months at this point. He hadn’t bothered telling them that he was married. Maybe it was petty, but it felt good cutting them off. If he’d ever needed confirmation that he was superfluous, a stain they’d rather rinse away, he had it. His therapist’s advice on dealing with bad thoughts looped in his head, and he tried to breathe, focusing on work instead. When he got to a stopping point, he texted Dante.

Trev: You busy tonight? Wife’s got book club, and I could use some advice.

Dante: I’m there. 7 at Grand?

Trev: Sure. See ya later.

Even this, truth be told, was kind of a big deal. He’d spent so many years feeling like shit that he honestly couldn’t imagine anyone sincerely wanting to hang out with him. So he’d never made any effort to become better friends with any of the poker night guys. His family had told him repeatedly that he was a failure and a loser with nothing to offer, and if they felt that way—

Enough of that.

He’d even started riding his bike to run errands, something he didn’t expect to enjoy, but those moments felt like freedom, even when it was cold as hell. In the end, he’d bought a low-end electric one, so it still counted as a workout. Sometimes he bundled up and went riding when he needed to clear his head. St. Claire didn’t have a bike lane, but most residential streets near the condo were quiet enough that he could race to his heart’s content.

“Are you going out tonight?” Leanne asked.

“Getting a drink with Dante. Should I ask to crash at his place tonight? Unless I’m remembering wrong, you’re hosting tonight, yeah?”

Leanne waved a hand in lazy acknowledgment. “I am indeed. Thankfully, nobody expects anything from me as a hostess. They’ll bring the food, I supply the wine.”

“That sounds fun. I should start a book club,” he said. “Do you think the guys would be up for it?”

“Maybe.”