Rebecca Lane was not my mistress.
That was the first thing I told Melissa.
She laughed bitterly.
“Of course.”
“It's true.”
“Then why do you look terrified?”
Because that was a better question.
I sat.
Melissa remained standing.
“Rebecca and I worked together.”
“When?”
“Five years ago.”
“Before we got married?”
“Yes.”
“How close?”
I hesitated.
Melissa laughed again.
“There it is.”
“Nothing happened.”
“But?”
“She kissed me.”
Silence.
“Once.”
Melissa stared.
“Did you kiss her back?”
“For maybe two seconds.”
Her face changed.
I continued before she could speak.
“Then I stopped it.”
“Did you tell me?”
“No.”
“So you lied.”
“I withheld something.”
“That is lying.”
“Yes.”
The word surprised her.
I wasn't going to defend it.
I had spent a week demanding honesty.
I did not get to invent softer vocabulary for my own failure.
Melissa sat slowly.
“Tell me everything.”
Rebecca had joined my company as a project analyst.
Smart.
Funny.
Recently divorced.
We worked late during a difficult acquisition.
One night after closing a major project, several coworkers went out.
Everyone left except Rebecca and me.
In the parking garage, she kissed me.
For a moment, I responded.
Then stepped back.
I told her I was engaged.
She apologized.
We never touched again.
Two months later, Rebecca transferred to Boston.
Melissa and I married that fall.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Cowardice.”
She looked surprised.
“I told myself nothing really happened.”
“But something did.”
“Yes.”
“You let me marry you without knowing.”
“Yes.”
Melissa's eyes filled.
For one dangerous second, I could see the equation forming in her mind.
My kiss.
Her affair.
Equal.
A way back.
She said:
“So you're not innocent either.”
“No.”
Her shoulders relaxed.
I continued.
“But don't confuse similarity with equivalence.”
Relaxation vanished.
“What does that mean?”
“I kissed someone once before we were married.”
“I stopped.”
“I hid it.”
“That was wrong.”
“You had an ongoing affair during our marriage and deliberately left to spend the night with him after I asked you not to.”
Melissa stared.
“Both can be wrong without being the same.”
She looked away.
“Convenient.”
“No.”
“Accurate.”
I held up the card.
“The bigger question is who knows.”
“Rebecca?”
“I haven't spoken to her in years.”
“Maybe she sent it.”
“She doesn't know where we live.”
“People can find addresses.”
True.
But something felt wrong.
Rebecca had nothing to gain.
And the card appeared on my porch the exact day Melissa returned.
That meant someone knew her schedule.
Someone knew about our separation.
Someone knew my history.
Very few people met all three conditions.
Melissa looked at the card.
“Evan?”
My eyes lifted.
“Does Evan know about Rebecca?”
“I never told him.”
“Does he know someone who does?”
She shook her head.
Then stopped.
“What?”
Melissa looked pale.
“Jenna.”
Her college friend.
The woman Melissa claimed she had been staying with.
“What about Jenna?”
“I told her.”
“What?”