When Troy came home the next evening, I was waiting at the kitchen table with the receipts laid out in front of me.
He stopped in the doorway, keys still in his hand.
“What is this?” I asked.
He looked at the paper, then at me.
“It’s not what you think.”
“Then tell me what it is.”
He stared at the receipts like they were something I’d planted to trap him.
“I’m not doing this,” he finally said. “You’re blowing it out of proportion.”
“Blowing it out of proportion?” My voice rose. “The money’s been disappearing, and you’ve stayed at this hotel eleven times without telling me. You’re lying about something. What is it?”
“You’re supposed to trust me.”
“I did trust you. I still do—but you’re not giving me anything.”
He shook his head. “I can’t do this right now.”
“Can’t—or won’t?”
He didn’t answer.
I slept in the guest room that night. The next morning, I asked again. He still refused.
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