I came home that Friday expecting sweatpants and a couch and instead found my wife wrestling herself into a black dress you'd wear if you never planned on coming back. By the time she finished explaining how I was supposed to sit home and take it, I was already three moves ahead, tearing her whole operation down with a calm voice and a phone call. I got home two hours earlier than I told her. The job wrapped up ahead of schedule.
The crew clocked out, paperwork shoved into my briefcase. It's just past six, that dead hour where the town's still warming up for Friday night. Kids on bikes, grills firing up, the usual. In my head, I'm already on the couch.
Sweats, cheap pizza, some garbage reality TV Lauren likes, the kind I make fun of but still watch. I step into the house and it's too quiet. No TV, no music, just the faint thump of heels on hardwood upstairs. Heels, not slippers.
I hang my keys on the hook, toe off my boots, and take the stairs slowly. I'm relaxed when I start up. By the time I hit the landing and see the bedroom light bleeding under the door, I'm alert, like my body knows something my brain hasn't caught up to yet. I push the door open without knocking.
Lauren's in front of the mirror, halfway into a black dress so thin it might as well be a suggestion. Nothing underneath. Her hair's done, makeup sharp, lips too red for the kind of night we usually have. She jumps a little when she sees me in the mirror.
"Jesus, Jason." She laughs, that fake surprised laugh. "You scared me." I look her up and down once.
No reaction on my face. Inside, it's like somebody flipped a breaker. Everything goes cold and bright. "Didn't know we were going anywhere," I say. "I would have shaved."
She turns, smoothing the fabric over her hips like she's onstage. "I'm going out," she says, watching my face. "Last-minute thing." "Yeah?"
I lean on the doorframe. "With who?" She holds my stare a second too long. I can see the decision happen in her eyes.
She's been rehearsing this. "Two old friends," she says. "From before you. We're just catching up."
She tilts her head. "Okay, well, not exactly friends. Two exes, technically." There it is. She waits for me to flare, to ask questions, to argue.
I don't. "Exes," I repeat. "Both of them." She shrugs like it's cute.
"Relax, Jason. It's not a big deal. They're in town. We're grabbing drinks, maybe hitting the Ritz bar."
"I told you I wanted more of a life than just this." Her hand flicks around the bedroom, dismissing the house I built, the mortgage I pay. I just watch her. She fills the silence with more words.
"You can handle one night alone, right? Watch your construction videos or whatever. I'll be back. You trust me, don't you?"
That last line is bait. She wants me to say yes or explode. Either response works for the story she wants to tell later. I walk past her to the nightstand, pick up her phone, and flip it over.
Unlocked. Careless. Confidence. "Hey, what are you doing?" she snaps.
"Just checking the time," I say. It's a lie. I'm checking the hotel confirmation on the screen she left open earlier. The one she thinks I never saw.