My Drunk Wife Called My Best Friend 'Honey'

At the college reunion party, my wife got drunk, collapsed into my best friend's arms, and called him "honey."

"Morris, don't forget to come over early tomorrow night. I bought a new pair of lace panties—red, your favorite..."

The private room went dead silent.

Morris Simmons waved his hands at me in a panic. "Nate, this is a misunderstanding. She's had too much to drink. She doesn't know what she's saying."

But the very next second, my wife yanked the silk scarf from her neck. "I'm not drunk. Look—these hickeys? All from you. We went at it for two days straight..."

My mind went blank. I'd been away on a business trip for three months and only got home today. Which meant those marks on her neck—marks left after sex—were from my best friend.

...

The humiliation burned hotter by the second. I shot to my feet, grabbed Valerie Harding by the arm, and hauled her off Morris's lap.

"Valerie. Say that again. I dare you."

They say liquor makes people brave. They also say it makes them honest.

So my thoroughly wasted wife fixed me with a cold, contemptuous stare. "I know exactly who you are, Nathaniel Gilbert. You want to hear it again? Fine. You're smaller than Morris. You can't satisfy me. And you're always too busy making money to spend any time with me. That's all you know how to do—work."

I laughed. Not because it was funny.

If I sat around the house doing nothing, what would we eat? What would keep us afloat—sweet-talking women for a living?

Before I could say a word, Valerie staggered back across the room and planted herself on Morris's lap again.

Morris, already in full panic mode, grabbed her shoulders. "Valerie, get up! Your husband is Nate!"

She didn't get up. Instead, she lunged forward and bit down on Morris's lip. Then, with a wicked grin, she reached down and grabbed the front of his pants. "See? I told you Nathaniel's got nothing on you. Yours is so much better."

Gasps rippled through the room. Every single person held their breath.

My face burned as if someone had slapped me in front of everyone. The humiliation was absolute. I was a walking joke.

Everyone there was old enough to read the room, and sharp enough to understand exactly what they were seeing: my beloved wife had been sleeping with my closest friend.

In that single moment, love and friendship both betrayed me.

Morris tried to shove Valerie off, but she hooked her legs around his waist and locked on tight.

"Morris, what are you doing?" she whined. "You're always so gentle with me. You said it yourself—Nate's a pushover. So what if he makes money? His wife still ends up in my bed."

I couldn't listen to another word. I charged forward and slammed my fist into Morris's face, dropping him to the floor. Valerie was still wrapped around his waist, so she went down with him.

I would have bet everything I owned that if the room had been empty, those two would have torn each other's clothes off right there on the carpet.

"Morris Simmons." My voice shook. "This is how you looked after my wife for me? Looked after her so well you took her to bed. Outstanding."

Rage trembled through every inch of my body. My wife cheating was one thing—but not with him. Anyone but him.

We grew up together. His family had nothing. I never once looked down on him. Whatever I had, I shared. When kids picked on him, I threw punches without a second thought. I got two ribs broken for it.

After graduation, when no one would hire him, I pulled strings to get him a shot at my company.

And my dear wife, Valerie—I treated her like a treasure. I pampered her until she never had to lift a finger. Whatever she wanted, I found a way to give it to her.

Never in a million years did I imagine that everything I'd poured into them—every ounce of loyalty, every sacrifice—would be repaid with this.

I yanked Valerie to her feet, picked up a cup of tea from the table, and threw it straight into her pretty face.