Then she reached into her bag.
“I wrote it down.”
“What?”
“Everything.”
She placed a spiral notebook on the table.
My stomach tightened.
“How much is everything?”
“Thirteen pages.”
I almost laughed.
“You needed thirteen pages for one night?”
Claire flinched.
“Please.”
I opened it.
The first date was April 22.
Ten months earlier.
Earlier than she had admitted in our kitchen.
I looked up.
“You said June.”
“The physical part was June.”
“This starts in April.”
“We started texting.”
“What kind?”
“Personal.”
The notebook described lunches.
Long messages.
Complaints about marriage.
Private jokes.
A drink after work.
Then a kiss in Evan’s truck.
Another one days later.
Then June.
A hotel.
July.
Another.
August.
A weekend afternoon when Claire told me she had gone shopping with her sister.
September.
Another hotel.
The ordinary rhythm was worse than any dramatic confession could have been.
This was not one reckless night.
It had become a schedule.
I reached page eight.
There was a date I recognized immediately.
October 17.
Our anniversary.
I looked up.
Claire began crying before I spoke.
“No.”
“Mark.”
“No.”
“We were fighting.”
“I cooked dinner.”
“I know.”
“You said your mother was having a bad night.”
Claire nodded through tears.
I remembered the message.
Mom’s overwhelmed. I’m staying with her for a while. Rain check? Love you.
I had bought steaks.
Claire loved the rosemary potatoes I made with them.
I opened a bottle of the same cabernet we drank on our honeymoon.
At 9:30, I ate alone.
At 10:12, I texted her a heart.
She sent one back.
“Were you with him?”
“Yes.”
I closed the notebook.
“I’m done.”
Claire stared.
“You said you wanted everything.”
“I did.”
“And now that I tell you, you’re leaving?”
“I’m leaving because of what you’re telling me.”
“That isn’t fair.”
She heard herself.
Closed her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
I stood.
“Mark, please.”
I kept my voice low because other people were nearby.