Relief flickered across her face. You're the best. I'm disgusting from the flight. She grabbed her suitcase and headed upstairs. I listened to the familiar sounds of her moving through our house.
The bedroom door opening, the suitcase being heaved onto the bed, the bathroom door closing, the shower starting, all of it so normal, so mundane, like the last two weeks had been exactly what she said they were. I pulled out my phone and looked at the photo again. The one Marcus had sent me. Marcus, her colleague, her work husband, the man she'd been texting at midnight for the past 6 months with messages that started as jokes and evolved into something else entirely. Marcus with his easy smile and his CrossFit body and his habit of putting his hand on the small of my wife's back during office parties.
In the photo, they were at a beachside restaurant. Rachel was laughing at something he'd said. Her hand on his forearm, her wedding ring catching the sunset light like a small bitter joke. They looked happy. They looked like a couple.
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.