They looked like people who had forgotten that other people existed. Marcus had sent it to me by accident, a group text meant for his college buddies that included my number because we'd once been friends too back before I understood what he was. The message that followed, "Wrong chat, man. Sorry," came 3 minutes later. Long enough for me to screenshot everything.
Long enough for the truth to burn itself into my retinas. I deleted the photo and put my phone away. Upstairs, the shower stopped. I heard Rachel humming, actually humming as she dried off as she wrapped herself in the towel I'd washed and folded last Tuesday while she was taking sunset walks with someone else. 40 minutes later, she came downstairs in yoga pants in one of my old college sweatshirts.
Her wet hair twisted into a bun. She looked younger, softer, like the woman I'd married. For a moment, just at a moment, I felt the muscle memory of love, the old instinct to protect her, to believe in her, to make excuses for the things that didn't add up. Then she smiled at me and I remembered. Grilled cheese?
I asked already pulling out the bread. Perfect. She sat at the kitchen island, pulled out her phone, started scrolling. Oh my god, I have so many emails. They really worked us to the bone.
I buttered the bread, laid cheese on sourdough, tried to keep my hand steady. Did Marcus survive? I know he was worried about the presentation. I said his name casually like it was nothing, like I didn't know what I knew. Rachel glanced up and for just a fraction of a second, something flickered in her eyes.
Fear, guilt, recognition that we were about to cross into territory we couldn't come back from. Marcus, she said, and her voice was almost perfect. Almost? Yeah, he did great. You know him?
Always prepared. I do know him, I agreed, flipping the sandwich. That's why I was surprised when I found out. Found out what? She was still scrolling, but her thumb had stopped moving.
This was the moment, the cliff edge, the point where our marriage would either bend or break. I played at her sandwich, cut it diagonally the way she liked, set it in front of her with a napkin and a pickle spear. Then I leaned against the counter, crossed my arms, and asked the question, "I'd been rehearsing for 6 days. Do you know what illness he has? " The color drained from her face like water from a tub. The phone slipped from her hand, clattered on the marble countertop.
Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. She looked at me like I just spoken in a foreign language. Like the words needed time to translate into something her brain could process. What? It came out as barely a whisper.
Marcus, I kept my voice calm, almost clinical. The illness, I'm assuming he told you given how much time you spent together these past two weeks. Her hand went to her throat. An unconscious gesture of panic. James, I don't What are you talking about?
It's serious, Rachel. The kind of thing that doesn't go away. The kind of thing that spreads if you're not careful. I let that hang in the air between us. Watched it sink in.