"Long week," I replied.
She invited me inside. I didn't rush the conversation. People like her don't respond to theatrics. They respond to sincerity.
"I wanted to let you know," I said carefully. "Lauren's staying with Jenna a bit. We're sorting things out. The girls are confused, but I'm keeping things stable at home."
I didn't accuse. Didn't embellish. Just offered a sad truth wrapped in respect. Mrs. Paris frowned.
The kind of frown that meant gears were turning. "Oh, dear. I thought things seemed tense at the beach." I nodded once.
"There were some choices made. I won't badmouth anyone, but I want the girls to feel safe. That's my priority." That was it.
Ten sentences. No lies. No drama. Just enough oxygen for the truth to breathe on its own.
By the time I left, I knew the loop would start. Neighbors to church friends. Church friends to their spouses. Spouses to co-workers.
Within hours, the story would spread, stripped of my emotion and filtered through the moral compass of the town. Not my version. Just the truth. That evening, I drove to Murphy's Bar, Milford's unofficial town hall.
No fancy drinks. No secrets. Just locals, cheap beer, and conversations that bounce off wooden walls until they turn into folklore. I walked in slow, calm, like a man with nothing to hide.
Some heads turned. Good. Let them look. Dave was already there nursing a beer.
"You sure you want to be out tonight?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said. "I'm fine."
Brad was across the room at a high-top with a couple of guys from the marina. He laughed too loud, like someone trying to cover up the fact that he'd heard the whispers already. The stiff shoulders gave it away. I ordered a soda.
Didn't need alcohol muddying my edges. I slid onto a stool. Conversation started on its own. That's how men talk in small towns.
Slow, with space to read between the lines.
"Are you doing okay with all that stuff going on?" one of the guys asked.