I'm Tom Harris, 36, CPA. I can read a balance sheet in seconds, spot fraud in a single line item. Somehow, I missed the red ink in my own house. That morning, I'm standing in the bathroom doorway, noticing a half-tied tie hanging off my collar, watching my wife put on mascara like she's gearing up for war.
Kristen's in front of the mirror, black eyeliner, careful strokes, mouth set tight. She's getting ready for Megan Collins's birthday at Meridian Gastropub. I'm getting ready for another round with the Morrison audit. "Liv, ask Daddy," she says when our seven-year-old tugs at her dress and asks for breakfast.
Olivia looks at me from the hallway, bedhead and big eyes, clutching her stuffed rabbit. I sigh and nod, tell her I'll make pancakes while my brain is already running numbers and deadlines. I'm tearing through the closet for my blue tie. "Are you going to talk to me or just throw clothes around?" Kristen asks, not looking away from the mirror.
"Sorry. Morrison account. My partner wants revised numbers before lunch," I say. It's automatic, like muscle memory. She stops mid-stroke and meets my eyes in the mirror.
"When's the last time you really looked at me, Tom?" I step closer, kiss the top of her head, still half distracted. "I'm looking at you right now. You look great. It's just this week. Once this audit is over, things calm down."
She exhales, that bitter little laugh I used to hear only in arguments. "You've been saying, 'Once this is over,' for three years. I don't want to be Olivia's mom and your housekeeper. I want to feel like your wife again." I remember thinking I was handling it.
I put my hands on her shoulders and meet her eyes. "I love you. You know that. It's just pressure at work. Temporary." Older me knows what she heard: more promises with no date attached.
Back then, I thought I'd smoothed it over when her shoulders finally relaxed. I didn't see her phone lighting up on the counter behind me. Rachel, her sister, was hyping her up to look insane tonight. And there was a name I should have paid attention to: Evan Parker.
"Can't wait to see you tonight. Been too long." While I'm skimming an email from a senior partner, my mom texts, "You're working yourself into an early grave. Don't forget you have a family, Tom." I roll my eyes, shove the phone in my pocket, tell myself everyone's being dramatic. In the kitchen, Olivia chatters over syrup while I mentally draft an email.
Kristen barely touches her toast, scrolling her phone, lips pressed together. I mistake silence for peace. Older me can see the scene like a freeze-frame now: the irritated wife, the distracted husband, the warning from my mother, the unknown man texting my wife he can't wait to see her. All the indicators flashing red on the dashboard.
I just assumed marriage was like a blue-chip stock, stable by default. I was wrong. Meridian Gastropub is one of those places that pretends it's casual while charging you 20 bucks for a drink. Edison bulbs, exposed brick, soft jazz, laughter stacked on laughter.
I walk in 20 minutes late, still smelling like toner and stale office air, phone buzzing in my pocket with emails I can't quite ignore. I scan the room for Kristen. I find her. Black dress, hair down.
Every head turns as she laughs at something I can't hear over the music. She looks electric, the version of her I used to see on vacations before life turned into carpools and quarterly reports. And beside her is a guy with his hand resting a little too familiar at the small of her back. Tall, relaxed, tailored jacket, that easy posture of a man who hasn't had to earn a thing with overtime.
She sees me, waves me over like I'm a friend arriving late to drinks. "Tom, hey." She leans in, kisses my cheek, quick, polite. "This is Evan. Evan Parker. We dated briefly before I met you."
She tosses that out like it's trivia, like saying he's from Ohio. My stomach drops anyway. Evan sticks out his hand, firm grip, perfect eye contact. "Man of the hour. Heard the audit's been killing you."