They ran every test they had. She said her voice hollow. Blood work, cultures, everything. They couldn't find anything wrong with me. I looked up from my book, marked my place with a finger.
That's good news, is it? She took a step into the room. James, what illness? What were you talking about? I set the book aside slowly, deliberately, let the silence stretch between us like a rubber band pulled to its breaking point.
I think you should sit down, Rachel. I don't want to sit down. I want you to tell me what the hell is going on. Sit down. Something in my tone made her obey.
She sank onto the couch across from me, pulling her wet cardigan tight around her body like armor. Water dripped from her clothes onto our hardwood floors, making small dark circles that spread and disappeared. There's no illness, I said quietly. The words hit her like a slap. What?
Marcus doesn't have an illness. He's fine. Perfectly healthy as far as I know. Her face went through several expressions in rapid succession. Confusion is relief.
Anger, then back to confusion, cycling through emotions like someone trying to find the right key for a lock. Then why? Because I needed you to run. I interrupted. I needed you to panic.
I needed you to feel even for just a few hours the kind of fear that makes you question everything you thought you knew. She stood up. You're insane. You sent me to a clinic. Made me think I'd been exposed to some some disease.
Made me terrified that I'd she stopped abruptly realizing what she'd almost said. I leaned forward. That you'd what, Rachel? Caught something from Marcus. Because that's interesting phrasing.
Why would you assume you'd caught something from Marcus specifically, unless you were in a position to catch something from him? Unless you'd been close enough, intimate enough for that to be a concern. The color that had returned to her face drained away again. We didn't. I haven't.
Don't. I held up a hand. Please don't insult both of us by lying right now. We're past that. We're so far past that.
She sank back onto the couch and I watched her realize that this conversation wasn't going the way she'd expected. That she'd walked into something she couldn't charm or explain or rationalize her way out of. "How long have you known? " she whispered. "Which part? That you and Marcus have been texting each other at midnight for 6 months?
That you've been deleting messages from your phone but not from our cloud backup? That the work retreat was actually a couple's package at the Azure Bay Resort that he booked using his personal credit card? " I paused. Or that you've been lying to my face every single day, asking me about my day, kissing me good night, making plans for our anniversary while you were planning something entirely different with someone else. " Each question landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples across her face. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. Finally, I can explain.
I don't want you to explain. I stood up, walked to the window, watched rain run down the glass. Explanations are for misunderstandings. This wasn't a misunderstanding, Rachel. This was a choice.
Dozens of choices, actually. Every text, every deleted message, every lie about working late or going to the gym or needing space. Every single one was a choice you made to betray me. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Her voice was small, breaking.
It just it evolved. We were friends. We worked together every day. And he understood things about me that you that I what I turned from the window that I didn't understand, that I failed to provide. Go ahead, Rachel.
Tell me how this is somehow my fault. That's not what I meant then. What did you mean? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you got bored or restless or whatever it is people get when they decide that their marriage vows were more like marriage suggestions. And instead of talking to me, instead of fighting for us, you just I gestured vaguely toward her, toward the space where our marriage used to be, you just found someone easier.
She was crying now, proper tears streaming down her face, mixing with the rainwater. I'm sorry, God. James, I'm so sorry. It was stupid and selfish, and I never meant to hurt you. But you did hurt me.
You are hurting me. Every second you sit there trying to make yourself feel better with apologies that don't mean anything, you're hurting me. I walked to the bookshelf where I had hidden the folder, pulled it out, set it on the key table between us with a sound like a judge's gavvel. This is 6 months of evidence. Phone records, credit card statements, security footage from the office parking garage showing you leaving together at midnight on dates when you told me you were working late.
Screenshots of texts where you called him baby and where he told you what he wanted to do to you when you were finally alone. Rachel stared at the folder like it was a bomb. You've been spying on me. I've been protecting myself. I corrected.
There's a difference. You created this situation and I responded to it. Don't try to make me the villain in your story. She reached for the folder with a shaking hand, opened it, started flipping through pages. I watched her face as she saw it all laid out, the evidence of her betrayal, organized chronologically, highlighted, annotated.
I'd spent 14 days building this case with the thoroughess of a prosecutor preparing for trial. What are you going to do with this? She asked finally. That depends on what? On whether you're capable of telling me the truth.