Chapter 12
That question almost offended me more than the rest.
“You spent eighteen months telling me not to ask questions.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No, I mean…”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“God.”
I watched him carefully.
For years, Mark’s ability to speak had controlled our arguments.
He was faster than I was.
More confident.
Whenever I brought him a feeling, he brought me an explanation.
Whenever I brought him doubt, he brought logic.
By the end of most arguments, I could barely remember what I had been upset about.
This time, I was not going to let him move the ground beneath me.
“Who is she?”
He looked toward the window.
“Mark.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“She’s someone I know through work.”
I had expected the answer.
It still hurt.
“How long?”
He hesitated.
That hesitation was terrible.
“How long?”
“Claire…”
“How long?”
“A while.”
I leaned forward.
“How. Long.”
He stared at the table.
“About a year.”
My body went cold.
A year.
I thought about Christmas.
My birthday.
His birthday.
Spring.
Summer.
Ordinary Mondays.
Rainy Sundays.
The weekend we painted the guest room together.
The night he held me when I cried after a difficult day.
A year was not one mistake.
A year required organization.
Choices.
Schedules.
Messages erased.
Stories rehearsed.
Clothes changed.
Time taken from one life and given to another.
“About a year,” I repeated.
“It wasn’t…”
He stopped.
“Wasn’t what?”
“What you think.”
That sentence made me so angry I gripped the edge of the table.
“You have no idea what I think.”
“I mean it wasn’t some plan.”
“Oh, that helps.”
“I’m not saying it helps.”
“Then don’t.”
He went quiet.
I had spent a week imagining questions.
Now that I could ask them, I discovered I did not want details.
I did not want to know what restaurants they used.
I did not want to know which lies covered which meetings.
I did not want to know what she wore.
I did not want a map of the places where my marriage had been betrayed.
There was only one thing I needed.
“Did you go to her house last Wednesday?”
Mark looked down.
I felt the answer before he spoke.
“Yes.”
The room blurred for one second.
I pressed my feet against the floor.
“And the client emergency?”
“There wasn’t one.”
Of course there wasn’t.
“And 2:08?”