Two years prior

I glance down at the shopping bag in the passenger seat and peek at the tiny yellow onesie with matching hat and booties. I can't help the elated grin that spreads across my face, the feeling of pride and joy and something I can't quite name at the thought of our child in that adorable outfit, cradled in my arms. Or even better, cradled in hers.

The outfit is more of a gesture and less of necessity; we have a little over seven months until the little guy, or girl, is here. But I want to do something special for Carrie, something to let her know how excited I am, to remind her this is good news. She says she's happy. She says she sees this as a blessing, but I've loved that girl since high school. I know her. We had always planned to have children, but only after she finished her doctorate, and I can't help but feel, based on her lukewarm reaction when we read the pregnancy test and ever since, that she worries this baby will slow her down, get in the way of her goals.

It won't. I won't let it. I will change dirty diapers and handle middle of the night feedings and do whatever it takes to support Carrie through this. I would do anything for her. For my family. My family...I smile wider and step on the gas.

The first thing I notice when I pull in the drive is the unfamiliar old, red pickup truck in our driveway. There's a spot of rust above the right headlight and graduation tassels hanging on the rearview mirror. I don't recognize it; it's probably someone from Carrie's study group. I suddenly feel guilty for not calling ahead; I wanted to surprise her by coming home from the conference a day early, but I didn't consider she would be using the time to study or work on her dissertation. All I could focus on is how much I missed her. Selfish.

My hands are full, my suitcase in one hand, the shopping bag and a milkshake I picked up for Carrie - mint chocolate chip - in the other. I gently knock with my knee, but when she doesn't open the door, I drop the bags and fumble for my keys.

I finally get the door unlocked and swing it open, depositing my suitcase by the door. I start toward the kitchen to put the milkshake in the fridge and stumble over the uneven flooring, reminding me I need to finish tiling this weekend. I'm almost to the fridge, but stop halfway when I hear Carrie upstairs, yelling.

I run, heart racing, taking the steps two at a time, then hesitate outside the door when I hear her again. She's not yelling, she's moaning.

Everything happens in slow motion. I put my hand to the door, twist the knob, and push. The door opens, inch by painstaking inch. What I see before me makes no sense. It's like I'm in some weird dream world. Nothing makes sense.

That's my wife sitting on the edge of our bed. She's leaning back on her forearms, her head tilted back, her eyes closed, her long, blonde hair brushing the white down comforter behind her. Her long, thin legs are draped over a pair of thick, muscular shoulders, a head bobbing between them. She moans again and he chuckles.

I'm still trying to understand. That's definitely my wife. That's the birthmark on the top of her small, perky right breast. That's the delicate ankle tattoo she got on our honeymoon. That's the diamond I slipped on her left hand the day we graduated college.

That's definitely not me kneeling on the floor between her legs. Those are not my shoulders her legs are resting on. That's not my  hair she's tugging. That's certainly not my mouth making her moan.

Then, as if still in a dream, everything comes into focus. I drop the milkshake on the floor with a thud, my white rug now stained bright green, and still they don't notice me.

I move quickly now, no longer hindered by my misunderstanding. I understand everything. Clearly.

I grab the man by the back of his neck and tug, violently pulling his mouth off my wife. He falls on his naked ass with a thud. She snaps her legs together, sits up and shrieks.

"What the hell!" The man yells while my wife simultaneously screams my name.

"James!" she shouts again when we finally make eye contact, scooting toward the middle of the bed and grasping at the sheets to cover herself. I don't know why, clearly everyone in the room has seen her naked. "James, what are you..." she trails off. A look of recognition, then apprehension, flashes across the man's face.

"Hey, man," he says, his hands up in front of him. He's backing up, scanning the floor with his eyes, presumably searching for his pants. "I'm just gonna go. Sorry about your wife." He smirks. He smirks.

"Sorry about my wife?" I repeat with a snort. I turn back to Carrie, who is now standing next to him crying. She's standing next to him. Across the room from me.

"Sorry about my wife?" I roar, this time. "You knew she was married, you little shit!" He's managed to find his pants and stands, planting his feet, squaring his shoulders and balling his fists. This asshole needs to settle down. He does not want to fight me right now.

I appraise him anyway. He's shorter than me, but thick. Athletic and cut without a drop of fat on him, but not as much muscle either. There's not a wrinkle or sunspot on his baby face, so I assume he's much younger. I'm still bigger. Stronger. Angrier. Not that I plan on fighting him. A lifetime of martial arts training has led me to respect violence as a necessary evil, only to be used as a last resort.

"Get out of my house."

He quickly turns, walking through the puddle of melted mint and chocolate. My left eye twitches as he leaves a trail of sticky, green footprints across from the doorway to the top of the staircase.

"Baby, wait," she says as she runs after him and grabs his arm.

"Look, I don't want this drama," he says to her with another nervous laugh. He probably should have thought about that before mouth fucking my wife. He jerks his arm away as she tugs the opposite direction. He breaks free, but it sends her falling backwards toward the stairs. He just stands there and watches her stumble while I sprint as fast as I can past him and catch her on the second step. She looks fine, but her knee hit the banister with a loud crack. That's going to leave a bruise.

"What is wrong with you?" Now I really might hit him. "She's pregnant you asshole! Leave, and don't touch her or my child ever again."

His mouth drops open and his eyes go wide and round. He didn't know she's carrying my baby and I feel smug about that. Finally, a secret I'm in on. I hope he realizes, even now, even after what I saw, she's my wife. I'll fight for her. For our family. My family.

"James, I..." she starts. Then she looks back at him.

"I don't know that its his," she explains to him, her voice barely above a whisper. "It could be yours," she sobs, her voice cracking as another tear escapes down her cheek.

I look at her. I look at Junior. I didn't understand at all. This isn't a one time trangression, this is an affair.

"How long?" I ask.

Silence.

"How long have you been fucking my wife?"

"A baby?" he whispers, obviously shell-shocked, still not answering my question. He looks like he's about to vomit.

"Look, Carrie, this was fun, but I'm not trying to be a dad. Y'all work this out."

"Fun?" Is this kid fucking serious? This is fun for him? He could have knocked her up and he's just - what? Just out? He's just going to bail on her? It's the last straw. I turn and land a right hook to his jaw.

"James, what the hell!" she screams, running toward him. Making sure he's okay.

He lunges toward me and I hit him again. My wedding band strikes the corner of his brow with such a force his skin bursts open. I watch a drop of blood slide down his face and onto the white rug, the first thing Carrie and I picked out together when we bought this old fixer upper. The rug where we christened our new home.

"Fuck you, asshole," he yells as he charges me. I'm on him in less than a second, landing blow after devastating blow. After all, I'm bigger. Stronger. Angrier. Junior lands a couple of solid hits that I know I'll feel tomorrow. I'll survive.

Carrie is screaming behind me.

She pleads with us to stop. We don't stop.

She begs me to back off. Neither of us back off.

"His dad is the police chief!" she screams. I don't give a fuck if his dad is the President of the United States of America. Fuck this guy.

"He's a student!" My fist stills, but for only a moment. I follow through with the blow and then stand. I point at the man on the floor, pretty sure he can see me through the one eye that's not swollen shut.

"You, don't fucking come at me like that again," I warn the pathetic piece of shit in the middle of the floor. I spin toward the pathetic piece of shit standing over him, still wrapped in the Egyptian cotton sheet we picked out together at Pottery Barn.

"What the hell Carrie? My God, you're cheating on me? In our home? Our bed? With a student? What, sabotaging our marriage wasn't enough? You needed to risk our careers too?" I sit on the edge of the top step and put my head in my hands.

"I didn't mean for this to happen, James. I'm so sorry." Even as she's apologizing she helping him up, inspecting the side of his swollen face and his bruising ribs.

I take a few deep, steady breaths, summoning as much strength and discipline as possible. I can't even think about my marriage or the baby right now. It's too much pain, so I numb myself to it and focus on a problem I can address. 

Carrie is fucking a student. Probably one of the undergrads she teaches as a T.A. I assaulted a student. This is bad. I shut off all emotion and go straight into damage control mode.

"Get him out of here. Clean him up. We need to talk."

He gets up and spits blood on my already ruined carpet. "Fuck you, man. I'm calling my dad and having you arrested for assault!"

"Fine. But you know that'll get Carrie fired. Expelled from her doctorate program. Probably ruin her teaching career." The selfish prick doesn't look remotely concerned. I look him over again, still shirtless and bleeding.

"You an athlete?" I ask. I know he is, I recognize him now, I just don't want him to have the satisfaction of knowing I know of him. "I'm sure you know those scholarships come with morality clauses. The no fraternization rule applies to you, too, sport." His face blanches and his eyes go wide.

"But fine," I say, handing him my phone. "Call daddy."

I don't even know why I'm even trying to damage control. I really don't give a fuck anymore. My entire fucking world has revolved around Carrie since before I could even legally drive. I don't have anything left to give a fuck about.