Chương 3
Then he walked away.
I listened to his footsteps cross the upstairs hallway.
Our bedroom door shut.
I stayed at the island.
On the counter beside the folded clothes sat the unopened bottle of migraine medication I had driven across Charlotte to deliver.
Caleb had forgotten to take it with him.
I carried the bottle upstairs.
Caleb was in the bathroom brushing his teeth, his tie gone and his shirt half unbuttoned.
I set the medication beside the sink.
“You forgot this.”
He looked at it in the mirror.
“Thanks.”
The toothbrush moved again.
That was all.
I stood in the doorway long enough to understand that he intended to let the night die from lack of oxygen.
Then I went to bed.
Caleb came out ten minutes later and lay down beside me without touching me.
His phone remained face down on the nightstand.
That detail bothered me more than it should have.
He usually charged it on the dresser because the cord beside the bed was unreliable.
Tonight it was within reach.
At 2:17, I woke because he had rolled onto his back and begun snoring softly.
The house was dark except for the green glow of the alarm clock.
I stared at the ceiling.
There are moments in a marriage when the thing you are about to do feels so unlike you that you wait for shame to stop you.
Mine never arrived.
I slid out of bed.
The hardwood was cold under my feet.
Caleb’s phone required Face ID, and I had no intention of holding it over a sleeping man’s face like something out of a cheap thriller.
His work phone was worse.
But the family iPad downstairs used the same cloud account as his personal phone, because Caleb liked convenience more than he liked changing settings.
Lucy used it for coloring games and educational videos.
The passcode was our wedding anniversary.
I sat at the kitchen table with the iPad in front of me.
For a few seconds, I only looked at the screen.
Then I opened Messages.
Rebecca Sloan did not appear.
Neither did Becca.
Neither did R.S.
I searched her phone number, which I remembered from a holiday card Patricia had once left on our counter.
Nothing.
The rational part of me immediately offered relief.
See.
You are becoming ridiculous.
Then I noticed an archived thread attached to an unsaved Charlotte number.
The first visible message was from Caleb.
April 22.
You look incredible, Becca.
It was like no time passed.
I stopped breathing normally.
The next message was hers.
You looked annoyingly good yourself.
Still ordering bourbon like a man trying to impress somebody?
Caleb had replied with a laughing emoji.
Then:
Only when I am.
I scrolled.
There were not thousands of messages.
That almost made them worse.
They were spaced out enough to suggest care.
Coffee after work.
Lunch in South End.
A drink after Rebecca’s client dinner.
A canceled Saturday plan because I had unexpectedly decided to take Lucy to the children’s museum with Caleb instead of going alone.
June 9:
Dinner Thursday?
The usual place in Dilworth.
Rebecca:
Can you get away?
Caleb:
Client meeting.
Apparently I have lots of those.
My thumb stopped against the glass.
June 9 had been a Thursday.
I had made salmon.
Lucy had refused it because she had recently learned fish had eyes.
Caleb had texted at six twelve.
Running late with a client.
Don’t wait.
I had put his dinner in a glass container.
He had come home after ten and eaten half of it standing at the sink.
I scrolled farther.
July 18:
I feel like myself again when I’m with you.
At home everything is just maintenance.
Rebecca had not answered for thirteen minutes.
Then:
That’s a cruel way to talk about your wife.
Caleb:
You know what I mean.
Rebecca:
I do.
That doesn’t mean I like hearing it.
I sat back.
For the first time that night, Rebecca stopped being a silhouette beside my husband and became inconveniently human.
I hated her anyway.
The feeling was immediate, childish, and satisfying for about three seconds.
Then I kept reading.
Rebecca:
Are you unhappy or are you bored?
Caleb:
Does it matter?
Rebecca:
Yes.
Caleb:
I don’t know anymore.
Another date.
July 27.
Rebecca:
I’m not going to be the reason you blow up your family.
Caleb:
You aren’t.
Rebecca:
Then stop talking like I’m an exit door.
There were other messages with softer edges.
College memories.
A professor they had hated.
A joke about a bar that no longer existed.
Pictures of restaurant menus.
Rebecca sent a photograph of a crooked bookshelf in her new apartment.
Caleb sent a picture of Lucy asleep with marker on her cheek.
Rebecca replied:
She looks like you did after finals.
Caleb:
Poor kid.
Then August 3.
Don’t book the Atlanta trip yet.
I’m figuring out how to handle Margot.
Rebecca:
Handle?
Caleb:
Bad word.
Rebecca:
Very bad word.
Caleb:
You know what I mean.
Rebecca:
I need you to decide what you’re doing before this becomes something neither of us can explain away.
Caleb:
I’m trying.
My hand had begun to tremble.
I put the iPad down and pressed both palms against the table.
The air conditioner clicked on.
Somewhere upstairs, the plumbing knocked in the wall.
Ordinary noises.
I had always believed catastrophe would sound different.
I picked up the iPad again.
Yesterday’s messages were near the bottom.
Rebecca:
If tomorrow is really about the consulting proposal, send me the deck tonight.
Caleb:
It is.
Rebecca:
That sounded convincing.
Caleb:
The pitch is real.
Conference room B at three.
I’ll make sure we aren’t disturbed.
Rebecca:
That last part makes this sound worse, not better.
Caleb:
I just don’t need half the office walking through.
Rebecca:
Fine.
Send the deck.
He had sent it.
A PowerPoint attachment followed.
Then, at 2:41 that afternoon, twelve minutes before I had walked into the office:
May you like
Caleb:
After we finish, stay a little.
