he’s in the shower. I’ll tell him when he gets out.” The lie stuck in my throat, my pride too strong to admit that I was spending my birthday alone.
I rushed through the remainder of the call and hung up, immediately dialing William’s number. It rang once and went to voice mail, as if he was on the phone. I sighed and ended the call without leaving a message.
My mind was starting to spin in dark ways, my solitude in this oceanfront home giving my doubts, insecurities, and paranoia free range to work overtime. The fear grew. Festered. Was something wrong between us?
I’d felt this way before. Six years ago, I’d had a similar feeling. William had been spending more time at the office, and I grew suspicious of the little changes. A cologne he began wearing with steadfast frequency. A new workout regime he was sticking with. An enthusiasm about the office I hadn’t seen before.
I’d remotely accessed his work computer one day and spent hours wading through emails before I found the potential culprit. First, an email between him and his assistant, where she called him Mr. President. That, while a little odd, wasn’t completely out of left field. He was the president and managing member of Winthorpe Companies. But in his response, he called her Ms. Lewinsky.
I’d stared at the words until they blurred, hot tears pricking the corners of my eyes, their presence quickly wiped away and replaced by something stronger—anger.
I’d printed every email between them since the start of her employment and gone crazy with a highlighter and Sharpie, underlining incriminating lines and scrawling notes with lots of exclamation points. By the time my clueless husband came home, every surface in his home office was covered in furious white pages, and my bags were packed and sitting by the door.
I had been like a baby snake, unable to control my venom and striking out with everything on the initial hit, no reserves left for the dumpy brunette who’d crossed the line with my husband.
And she had been dumpy. That had been the most alarming thing of all. I’d spent our marriage on high alert for the sex kittens, the glamour queens, the pinup models masquerading as pencil pushers. I’d known his type—leggy brunettes with great bodies—and had blocked every potential threat with precise accuracy. He was a sexual man, one who appealed to practically every woman out there, and I’d spent the first few years of our marriage playing badminton with beauties until I’d found secure footing in his fidelity. But when he had strayed, it had been with the most ordinary of women. Brenda Flort. Forty-two years old to his then thirty-five. Chubby around the midsection, she wore pants a hair too short. Glasses because “contacts made her eyes hurt.” Her hair was in a perpetual messy bun. She was a woman whom William should never have given a second glance to, yet he had. He’d risked our marriage over his flirtation. And I made sure that the minute he’d walked in the door, he understood it.
It hadn’t gone well at all. I’d expected tearful remorse, a shuddering of composure, and him begging me to forgive him, to give him another chance.
Instead, he’d turned haughty, dismissing my emails as nothing. He called me crazy and brought up innocent acquaintances of mine, painting them with the same brush.
We’d fought for hours, our throats growing hoarse. They’d developed nicknames for each other after a conversation on a Lewinsky news piece. That was it. She was old, for Christ’s sake. Did I think he was sleeping with her? Was he not allowed to be playful with his own staff? Was I that insecure in our relationship? Had he ever, in seven years, given me any reason to doubt him?
I’d deflated and begun to question every word I’d read. I’d cursed myself for not doing more research—following him and gaining more evidence than just emails. Was I wrong? Had it been just innocent wordplay?
I’d fallen silent, and when he gathered me into his arms, I allowed it. I took his reassurances and swallowed my concerns. The suitcases returned to our closet, where they were unpacked by the home staff the next morning, our perfect life back in place by noon.
I’d caved, but despite my carefree comments to Neena, I’d never fully trusted him again.
I was down at the surf when my phone chimed. Moving away from the water, I dug in the pocket of my robe and pulled