Dear Wife - Kimberly Belle Page 0,21
shall we?”
She looks happy. Her skin is flushed, her cheeks pink with excitement as she backward-walks the camera through the house, pointing out the features. When she signed up for the real estate course in Little Rock, I bitched about the time commitment, didn’t hold back about how the house and our social life and our marriage would suffer, but I knew she’d be good at it. The truth is, that’s what I was more worried about. I lean forward on my chair, remembering when she used to smile like this at me. When I was the one to make her glow.
The computer beeps, and at the bottom of the screen, a window opens. A message from someone named Bella.
Hey you. I ran into Trevor last night at the grocery store, and he was asking about you. Like, really asking. If I’ve seen you lately, if we’ve talked, what we talked about. He wouldn’t tell me why, just gave me this big-ass smile like a canary would pop out any second. Are you the canary? I’m here for you whenever you have something to tell me. XO
I sit back on my stool.
Trevor. Who the fuck is Trevor?
I click on the list of Sabine’s friends and type the name in the search bar, with zero results. I repeat the search in her email program, and this time I get a hit. Multiple hits, actually, messages sent and received with Dr. Trevor McAdams, an ob-gyn at Jefferson Regional. Apparently, Sabine sold him a house last fall.
The most recent string is a boring exchange from November, setting up a meeting for the signing of papers, the official exchange of keys. I scan their back-and-forth, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary. No flirtatious innuendo, nothing that implies a swallow-the-canary kind of outcome. The only thing Trevor says that is even remotely personal is that he wishes her a nice Thanksgiving. She thanks him, says she hopes he and his family will be happy in their new home.
His family.
Maybe I’m overthinking this. Trevor is an ob-gyn, so it’s not entirely impossible he could be Sabine’s doctor. Not because she’s pregnant, something that’s impossible when you haven’t had sex in five—that’s right, count ’em—five months. But women go to the gynecologist for other reasons. Maybe Sabine goes to this guy.
I scroll down to his signature, click through to his bio on the hospital website. Trevor McAdams is a decent-looking guy, probably somewhere in his early forties. Clear skin, bright eyes, full head of hair swept off a broad forehead. The type of face that plenty of women wouldn’t mind having between their legs.
Is my wife one of them?
I return to the emails and open one of the attachments. Eight months ago, Trevor plunked down just over three hundred thousand dollars for 4572 square feet of newly renovated house on a quiet street overlooking Pine Bluff Country Club. That’s a lot of square footage, and an address in the swankiest area of town. No mortgage, which means he earns a hell of a lot more than Sabine and I do added together. I jot his address on a sticky note, 1600 Country Club Lane.
I open Sabine’s calendar, in search of the address for last night’s showing, but it’s empty. She hasn’t synced it in ages, maybe never. I click the icon for the internet instead and surf to Google, where Sabine is already signed in. I pause, the cursor hovering over the symbol for Gmail.
Sabine has a Gmail account?
I stop. Stare at the screen. Breathe hard and fast through my nose. My finger lingers over the track pad because I know, I know, I goddamnitalltohell know what I’ll find once I click it.
Hundreds of IM chats, all with Trevor McFuckingAdams.
I need to see you. Even if it’s only for a minute.
I’m sitting next to him, thinking about you.
Meet me at our place in half an hour.
You said we wouldn’t fall in love. You lied. (I’m glad)
I’m ready to tell them, Sabine. I’m ready to take that step whenever you are.
OMG, are we really going to do this? Can we?
Yes, dammit. All you have to do is say the word.
I love you. Let’s tell them this weekend.
The coffee turns to oil in my stomach, and I shove the cup away. It skids across the counter and into the sink, and it’s a good thing Sabine is not here, because if she were, I would fucking kill her. No, first I would hurt her, and then I would