October, The Odd Ones

I moved into the guest room without ceremony. No suitcase. Just a pillow and a thin blanket tucked under my arm, the quiet of my footsteps louder than any fight we'd ever had. I wanted my own space. I didn't slam the door. I didn't even close it all the way that first night. I just lay down on the too-firm mattress, stared at the popcorn ceiling, and pretended I couldn't hear him outside the bedroom.

He didn't knock the first night. Or the second. Just lingered in the hall long enough for me to hear the hesitation in his breath. But by the third night, the knock came—soft, hesitant, the way you might knock on a stranger's door.

"October?" A pause. "Can we talk?"

I said nothing.

He waited. I could hear him shifting his weight. "Okay. I'll be here if you want to. I just... I'm here."

That became the rhythm of our nights.

Knock. Whisper. Silence.

Sometimes, at night, I'd hear him settle outside the guest room door. His body made a soft thump against the wall, like even he was exhausted by the weight of everything unsaid. He'd talk low—half to me, half to the air—as if he believed maybe drywall could translate what his heart couldn't anymore.

"Long day today," he murmured once, voice muffled. "We finally wrapped the Concordia pitch. You know the one I've been sweating over for weeks? He paused. Waiting, hoping for something. But I said nothing. I was already curled on my side, eyes open in the dark.

Another night, he tried again. "I skipped lunch. I know, I know. You'd be mad. I just... forgot. The meeting ran over. But I had those granola bars you stuffed in the glove box last month. The ones you said were too chalky to actually enjoy."

I closed my eyes tighter. It hurt in the weirdest way, like a phantom ache from a limb that had been gone too long.

Once, I heard him clear his throat and say, "I wanted to ask how your day was. Did Lola do that thing again, with the blocks and the tower? You said she was starting to stack them like a little architect. And Alice—she had music today, right? And... did you go somewhere?"

My jaw clenched. That should've been normal. But I used to beg for this. For him to remember my schedule. To care. I'd sit beside him on the couch and ask about his meetings, his clients, his stress levels like I was trying to collect pieces of him before they scattered. I'd make him tea when he was tired. Offer solutions he didn't take. Sit in bed late waiting for him to walk in, just to ask, "Tell me something good about today." I'd rub his shoulders when he looked tense. Trace circles on his wrist with my thumb. Give a damn.

Now, I couldn't bring myself to even crack the door open.

I heard his sighs when he thought I wasn't listening. The quiet frustration in his breath. The guilt, too. The confusion. He was looking for the version of me that used to greet him at the door, and instead he found a woman who no longer cared what mug he drank his coffee from.

But the worst part? I did care.

He started staying for breakfast, too. Sitting at the table instead of rushing out the door with his tie half-done like he used to. Jimmy barely acknowledged him. A few muttered "yeah"s or "dunno"s if he was directly spoken to, but mostly he pushed cereal around the bowl and avoided eye contact.

I didn't talk to Thomas much in the mornings. I offered coffee like a peace treaty I didn't believe in. I answered in single syllables. I didn't smile.

He noticed, of course. He was noticing everything now—my clipped tone, my empty eyes, the invisible border between us. But it was too late for noticing.

I had retreated to a place he could not follow.

After a while, I'd been craving something different—something that didn't feel like silence or resentment or walking on eggshells. Not just a change of scenery, but something in me. Something I could control.

So, one morning after another long, silent breakfast with Thomas and the kids, while the coffee was still too hot to sip and the ache behind my eyes felt permanent, I made the call. Enrolled Lola in daycare—just for a few days a week. Enough to give myself a window of space. Enough to make it to the gym without racing the clock. Enough to be... a person again.

Thomas didn't find out until the night before her first day. I was folding laundry on the couch when he came in, holding the little daycare info sheet in his hand like it was a parking ticket.

"Where is this coming from?" he asked, voice laced with confusion and something else. Disapproval. "You've never put the kids in daycare before."

I didn't look up. "I know."

He stared at me for a beat, waiting for more. "Why now? Is everything okay with Lola?"

"She's fine," I said, still folding. "I just need a few mornings to myself."

He blinked. "Why didn't we talk about this?"

I finally looked up at him. "Because I wasn't asking."

That stunned him. I could see it in the way his jaw flexed, how he blinked like someone had just thrown cold water on him.

"I could take her to my mom's," he offered quickly, like he needed to fix it. "She's retired now. She'd love it. And it'd save us money."

"She's getting older," I replied evenly. "And a baby is a lot of work. It's not fair to put that on her."

He wasn't convinced. I could see the arguments forming behind his eyes, ready to spill. But I wasn't in the mood for a debate. Not this time.

"I'll pay for it myself," I added.

His eyes widened. "What?"

"I'll cover it. Don't worry."

His voice rose, hurt more than angry. "October, I provide for this family. I'm your husband. I'm their father. What does that even mean, you'll pay for it?"

"It means," I said quietly, folding the last shirt, "that I'm doing this for me. And I don't need permission."

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. He didn't say anything else. Just stood there for a long second like he didn't recognize the woman in front of him anymore.

The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed before the sun rose. The house was quiet in that heavy way it gets when everyone's asleep, and I stood there for a second, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell I was even doing. Then I moved. Because I had to.

I pulled on old leggings, the kind with a faint bleach stain on the thigh, and tied my hair up in a knot that screamed I don't care—which wasn't true, but close enough. My reflection looked tired. Stretched thin. But I ignored her.

By the time I dropped the kids off—Jimmy at school, Alice at kindergarten, Lola at daycare—I felt like I'd already lived a full day. A thousand tiny decisions. Wipes, buckles, zippers, forgotten snacks, last-minute hugs.

And then I had five minutes. Just five minutes to sit in the driver's seat, head against the wheel, breathing like I might cry or scream or both. I needed support—and for once, I didn't try to carry it all alone. I was proud of myself for reaching out.

So I called August. August and I met in college—two girls who bonded over coffee breath, shared playlists, and the mutual fear of public speaking. We were close then. But life happened. Marriage, work, kids. The kind of busy that swallows even the best intentions. We fell out of touch, but never out of care. We talked often, but rarely met.

"Do you still go to the gym?" I asked, voice tight.

There was a beat of silence, then her warm, familiar laugh. "Still hate it, but yeah."

"I need a gym partner," I said.

Another pause. Then: "Pick you up in ten?"

When I finally pulled into August's driveway, I didn't say anything. Just waved when she opened the door in leggings and a hoodie, holding a thermos of coffee like it was holy.

Just like that, we had a routine.

The gym became my sanctuary. A quiet place where everything could hurt in a way I chose. A way I controlled. With August by my side, it didn't feel so lonely. We started slow—ten minutes on the treadmill, sharing grimaces like, Why did we do this again? Then came the machines, then the weights, and finally, a kind of rhythm. Laughter in between reps. Complaints about sore thighs. A shared playlist full of rage and nostalgia.

We didn't talk about Thomas. Not at first. But August always knew how to read the silence between my words. She understood what it meant to feel humiliated and small. She understood the quiet violence of emotional pain. The kind that doesn't leave bruises but changes the way you carry yourself.

One day at the gym, she tossed me a towel and said, "We're not here to get hot for anyone else. This is for you. Got it?"

"Got it," I nodded, then I turned to her and said, "I think I want to change my hair though."

She looked up from tying her shoelace and smiled slowly. "What kind of change?"

"I don't know. Not too Dramatic? But Something... not me."

"You mean something not him," she said gently, eyes knowing. "Change is good. But make sure it's still you. You don't have to become someone else to escape what he made you feel. You were always beautiful. You just forgot."

I looked at her. That same protective warmth from college still wrapped around her. Maybe a little stronger now. Sharpened by her own past.

"I won't let you look like anyone but the badass version of yourself," she added with a smirk. "But yeah. Let's do it. Cliché haircut and all."

So we booked a salon appointment right then and there. No overthinking. No Pinterest board. No asking for opinions. Just... change.

I walked in with long, tired hair that felt like it belonged to someone else. The version of me who held everything in, who kept the peace, who disappeared quietly behind everyone else's needs.

I sat in the chair and looked at myself in the mirror, really looked. And I said, "Cut it."
The stylist raised a brow. "How short?"
"Short," I said, my voice firmer this time. "Above the shoulders. Maybe even a little shorter."

August grinned at me in the mirror. "You're gonna look amazing."

I went warmer—rich cinnamon and deep chestnut, with hints of honey in the light. Something bold but soft. A hue that said I'm still me, but also not the same anymore. She gave me soft layers that framed my face, brought out my cheekbones. The weight of the cut hair on the floor felt symbolic, like I was shedding months—maybe years—of things I'd swallowed just to keep going.

When it was done, I ran my fingers through it and didn't recognize myself in the best way possible. Like a soft rebellion.

When I walked through the door that evening, Thomas looked up and froze.

His eyes scanned me like I was a stranger.

"You changed your hair," he said.

I didn't answer.

"You're always beautiful, you know."

Still, I said nothing. His phone started ringing, I looked down it was her name, no picture though, I just sighed and walked past him.

Later that night, there was a knock on the guest room door.

"October?" His voice was cautious, careful—like a man standing near a cracked window, unsure if it was going to break or open.

I didn't respond.

He knocked again. "Can we talk? It's about my father's birthday."

I opened the door and kept waiting for him to speak:

"Hey," he said. I didn't answer. I just waited.

There was a pause, then a deep breath. "Father invited us to dinner. You, me, the kids. And... Laura."

I froze. My fingers clenched slightly around the door frame.

"I didn't invite her," he added quickly. "I swear, it was his idea. She's just... coming."

Still, I said nothing.

"She thought we should get him something. A gift," he continued, trying too hard to sound casual. "Like... work-related. That's why she called. Just to suggest it."

I looked at him. My voice came out level, flat. "A gift. You and her. Like a couple thing."

His face collapsed into panic. "No—no, October. That's not what I meant. Not even close. I mean... my dad loves that wine decanter set on his desk, right? Laura thought we could get him one of those, customized. With the firm's logo etched into the glass. That's all. It's just business. It's nothing else."

Just business. Sure.

He must've seen something in my eyes, because he rushed to explain further.

"I didn't say yes," he said. "I didn't agree to anything. I was waiting to talk to you first. But it feels like... you already have it in your head that something's going on between me and her—"

And that was the moment the anger bubbled over.

"Have it in my head? That's what you're going with now?" I snapped.

He flinched like the words hit him. Maybe they did. He looked cornered, like someone who knew they were treading too close to something fragile and sacred and already cracked.

Then I just stepped forward and slowly pulled the door back between us.

My voice was quiet. Final. "Do whatever feels right, Thomas."

And I closed the door again.

He stood on the other side for a few seconds, maybe hoping I'd open it back up. But I didn't.

And neither of us could have imagined how much that birthday party would change everything.

We were walking into a celebration. But we had no idea it would become a reckoning.