Page 13 of The Logic of Loyalty

Paige was my first and only. My dad taught me early on that it was better to get my satisfaction through other means, with less permanent consequences. It was one of the only pieces of advice I followed until I met my wife. Paige was—is—a whole other story.

Our relationship was intense from the beginning—the realest thing I’d ever felt. It was never about getting off with her. It was always the connection. It’s a rope, always pulling me to her like I can’t get close enough. Not until we are as close as two people can get, but even that isn’t ever enough. Nothing and nobody makes me feel the way that Paige does.

Our schedules are becoming harder to maintain, and while my father breathes down my neck, hoping and trying to mold me into his perfect little VP puppet, I’m being bogged down with work that doesn’t belong to me and expectations that don’t make any sense.

I’m exhausted, and I miss my wife. Selecting her contact, I press call and bring the phone to my ear—straight to voicemail. Ending the call, I tap the phone against my forehead. Once, twice, three times when the doorbell rings. I sit up in expectation, followed swiftly by disappointment.

Paige isn’t going to ring her own doorbell, you damn idiot. So who could it be? I groan, slowly rising to my feet and stretching before I go check who the hell is here. “Coming!” I shout. Then, to myself, “Hopefully, you aren’t in a hurry.”

At the front door, leaning against the porch’s support column, is Carter Stewart, one of my closest and oldest friends. I throw open the door and pull my pseudo brother in for a bro-hug—lots of back patting and all that good stuff. He looks at me with tired eyes.

“Hey, man. You busy?”

My family rejected a loan he requested a few weeks ago, but neither he nor they would let me get involved with the process. I’m confident I’d have found a way to get it approved if he had come to me privately, but I’ll never tell him that now. Based on his tired eyes and drooping shoulders, my good friend is already beating himself up enough.

“Nah. You want to come in?” He darts a glance over my shoulder at the door, but shakes his head.

“I’m good with chilling out here if you are.” Nodding, I pull the door closed and lean against the opposite column, shoving my hands into my pockets.

We stand in silence for a bit, and I’m completely clueless as to why he’s here. “Y’all doing anything for the fourth next week?”

As if a switch flips, his face grows goofy with affection at even the slightest mention of his woman. I don’t blame him. She’s actually perfect for him—a lovely person in general.

“No, not yet. I think Becky has been waiting for y’all’s invite. She’s half in love with your wife, so I think the answer will likely be yes.”

Everyone is half in love with my wife. Like Josh.

“What’s that face for?” Carter asks, his voice laced with humor.

“What face?”

He jabs his finger directly into my nose. “That one you’re making. Right there.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s nothing.”

“No, that is definitely something.” He’s not going to drop it.

“Just thinking about how everyone is half in love with my wife.” I sound petulant to my own ears.

Carter guffaws at me. “Dude”—more laughter—“you are so right!”

“Thanks, brother.”

“No, your face”—he clutches his stomach and points his finger at me—“is priceless right now. Hold on.” The fucker takes out his phone and points it at me.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I growl, reaching for his phone.

He jumps out of reach. “Oh, man. That look is it! I’m sending it to the group chat. Billy will love it.”

“Billy will, at most, send a thumbs up.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Absolutely.”

“Sent.”

Jesus fucking⁠—