“Emergency projections meeting.”
I kept chopping tomatoes.
“What time?”
“Late afternoon. Could go until midnight.”
I almost admired how easily he said it.
Two days earlier, our marriage had contained ordinary problems.
Laundry.
Bills.
Too much screen time.
Now I was standing six feet away from a man casually constructing an entire fake Saturday.
“That’s rough,” I said.
“Tell me about it.”
“I was thinking Sophie and I might sleep at my sister’s anyway.”
Evan’s shoulders visibly relaxed.
“Actually, that’s perfect.”
I looked at him.
“Perfect?”
“You know what I mean. I won’t have to worry about waking you up.”
He walked behind me, kissed the side of my head, and reached into the cabinet for a glass.
The gesture nearly hurt more than the lie.
Because it was so normal.
So practiced.
I wondered how many times people are betrayed while standing in completely ordinary kitchens.
That night, I made my decision.
I wasn’t going to interrogate him.
I wasn’t going to search his laptop.
I wasn’t going to follow his car.
I was simply going to attend the party my husband had gone to such extraordinary effort to keep me away from.
If there was an innocent explanation, I would apologize.
If there wasn’t…
I would stop begging my instincts to be wrong.
Saturday arrived hot and cloudless.
At four o’clock, Evan came downstairs in dark trousers and a pale blue button-down shirt.
Too nice for an emergency projections meeting.
I noticed immediately.
“So that’s your crisis outfit?” I asked.
He glanced down.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He grabbed his keys.
“Don’t wait up.”
