After what felt like hours, I slipped back into bed. He was already there, breathing evenly, pretending he hadn’t just crossed a line you can’t uncross.
“Dave?” I whispered.
“Mmm?” He rolled toward me, eyes heavy with fake sleep. “Everything okay?”
“I got up to use the bathroom. Where were you?”
“What do you mean? I’ve been right here.” He reached for me—his hand still warm from holding her. “Come here.”
I let him pull me close, even as my skin crawled.
“Love you,” he murmured.
“Love you too,” I whispered, tasting ash.
Friday, I called in sick. No way I could focus on work while my marriage crumbled in five-minute increments every night.
I sat at the kitchen table, opened a new email account, researched divorce lawyers. It felt bizarre—like shopping for appliances while dismantling my life.
That evening, Dave brought home red roses.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked, arranging them.
“Can’t a man surprise his wife?” He kissed my cheek. I wondered if Betty liked roses too.
