Chapter 2

Jennifer's POV

I told him everything. About the YouTube video, about Leo's letter, about the phone call.

"Christ. He really did that?"

"He thinks we're getting divorced. And honestly, maybe he's not wrong."

Peter leaned back in his chair and suddenly looked older. "So what do we do?"

"I don't know. Maybe we go on their stupid show and let them point cameras at us while we pretend some machine can fix eight years of problems."

"And if it doesn't work?"

I looked right at him. "Then we get divorced and at least Leo will know we tried everything."

Peter was quiet for a long time. Then he nodded. "Okay. One more try."

One more try. Like we were putting a dying animal out of its misery.

"I'll call them tomorrow."

"Jennifer?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry. About all of this."

For just a second I saw the guy who used to bring me coffee in bed and dance with me in the kitchen while dinner was cooking.

"I'm sorry too."

But walking upstairs to check on Leo, I knew sorry wasn't going to be enough to fix us.

Saturday afternoon we found ourselves in the weirdest place I'd ever been. The TV studio looked like someone had crossed a game show with a medical office. Bright lights everywhere, cameras on wheels, and this massive metal machine in the center that looked like something from a bad sci-fi movie.

"Welcome, welcome!" The host bounced over to us, some woman named Candy with blindingly white teeth and the kind of smile. "Mr. and Mrs. Morgan! We're so excited to help you rediscover your love!"

Peter and I stood there avoiding eye contact like teenagers at an awkward school dance.

We look like complete strangers who just happened to show up at the same place.

"Now before we begin," Candy chirped, "I want you to know that thousands of couples have reconnected through our Mind-Reading technology. You're about to see into each other's hearts in a way that will change your relationship forever!"

God, I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe some machine could wave a magic wand and undo eight years of hurt and disappointment. But looking at Peter, seeing the skepticism all over his face, I felt like we were both just going through the motions for Leo's sake.

Some nervous twenty-something technician led us to chairs that looked like dental equipment from hell. Above each chair hung a chrome helmet connected to about a thousand wires that snaked up to the main computer.

"Just relax," the tech said, lowering the helmet onto my head. The thing was heavy and cold. "This is completely painless. In a few minutes you'll see each other's thoughts and feelings on the screen."

I glanced at Peter. The helmet made him look ridiculous, like some kind of alien. Six months ago I would have started giggling.

"Ready to discover what's really in your hearts?" Candy asked with fake drama in her voice.

The technician went to his console. "Starting scan in three... two... one..."

I closed my eyes and tried to think loving thoughts about Peter. Our first date when he was so nervous he spilled wine down his shirt. Our wedding when he cried watching me walk down the aisle. The night Leo was born when Peter held my hand and told me I was the strongest person he knew.

Please work. Please show him how much I'm hurting. Please show him that I still love him somewhere under all this anger.

Then this horrible screeching sound filled the air, like nails on a chalkboard mixed with a dying cat. All the lights on the machine started flashing red and smoke began pouring out of the main console.

"What's happening?" Peter's voice was muffled under the helmet.

The technician started frantically hitting buttons. "I don't know, this has never happened before."

"Shut it down!" someone yelled.

Everything went silent. The screens that were supposed to show our thoughts were completely black.

We pulled off our helmets and looked at each other.

"Did you see anything?" Peter asked.

I shook my head. "Nothing."

Candy rushed over, her fake smile now strained. "I'm so sorry! We're having some technical difficulties. The machine has never malfunctioned like this."

Of course even a miracle machine can't save us.

Some harried director with a clipboard hurried over. "The whole system's fried. We'll need at least one week to fix this, maybe longer."

Peter stood up and brushed off his jacket. "So that's it? This was pointless?"

"Not pointless!" Candy insisted, but she sounded like she didn't believe it herself. "Sometimes the universe works in mysterious ways. Maybe you weren't ready for the full experience today."

I wanted to laugh.

This was our miracle cure and it literally blew up in our faces.

The drive home was quiet except for some upbeat pop song on the radio that made everything feel even more hopeless.

"Well," Peter said as we pulled into our driveway. "That was a complete waste of time."

I couldn't even argue. We'd put our last hope in a game show and the game show couldn't even get its act together.

Leo ran to the door with hope all over his face. "How was it? Did you see each other's hearts? Are you going to be happy now?"

I knelt down and hugged him, forcing myself to smile. "The machine was broken, sweetie. We couldn't see anything."

His little face fell. "So you're still going to be sad?"

I looked up at Peter and for just a moment we really looked at each other, and I saw my own exhaustion staring back at me.

"We're going to keep trying, buddy," Peter said quietly.

But that night, tucking Leo into bed and listening to him whisper prayers for Mommy and Daddy to be happy again.

I can't do this anymore. I can't keep pretending that trying is enough when nothing ever changes.

I stood in the hallway outside Leo's room with my hand on the doorknob and made a decision that should have destroyed me but instead felt like relief.

Tomorrow I was going to call a divorce lawyer.

I'm sorry, Leo. I'm so sorry we couldn't make this work.

The machine failed us just like we failed each other, and now all that was left was figuring out how to break our little boy's heart as gently as possible while we tore apart everything he thought was permanent.

I went to my bedroom and closed the door, the one I'd been sleeping in alone for months. Tomorrow would mean lawyers and custody schedules and dividing up eight years of shared life into boxes and legal documents.

Sometimes accepting that it's over is the only honest thing you have left.