Chapter 2
Marcus appeared carrying two glasses of lemonade.
He stopped so abruptly that the liquid tilted against the rims.
His eyes moved from Tasha to me.
For the first time in seven years, I watched my husband search for a lie and fail to find one quickly enough.
“Nia.”
“That’s my name.”
He set the glasses on the hallway console. One left a wet ring on the wood.
I noticed because noticing something small kept me from shaking.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Apparently, I’m visiting my former business partner.”
Tasha folded her arms across her tank top.
“You said you were divorced.”
Marcus looked at her.
“I said it was complicated.”
“No,” she answered. “You said it was over.”
He turned back to me.
“Let’s go outside.”
“We are outside,” I said. “You’re the one standing in a house I helped buy.”
He lowered his voice.
“This isn’t the place.”
“Then tell me where you planned to explain it.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. I knew the movement. It usually came before a patient speech about my imagination.
“Nia, I didn’t want you hurt.”
“Was that before or after you moved her in?”
Tasha stepped away from him.
“You told me you bought this house yourself.”
Marcus gave her a warning look.
I saw it clearly.
A look meant to remind her that he controlled the story.
“Tasha,” he said, “please give us a minute.”
“No,” she answered.
He blinked.
She had surprised him too.
“You don’t get separate conversations,” she said. “You’ve already had enough of those.”
For a moment, I almost thanked her.
Then the hurt surged back. She was wearing his sweatshirt. She had lived here for six weeks. My husband had built something with her while continuing to come home to me.
I could believe she was deceived and still need distance from her.
“Take that off,” I said, nodding toward the sweatshirt.
She looked down.
“I didn’t know.”
“I know what you’ve said. I’m asking you to take it off.”
She slipped it over her head and laid it on the console.
Marcus reached toward me.
I stepped back.
“Don’t.”
His hand dropped.
“I can explain.”
“Then start with why you were beside me last night while telling her we were finished.”
He looked at the floor.
“I was trying to figure out what I wanted.”
The answer struck me harder than a denial.
He had known what he was doing.
He had simply expected us to wait unknowingly while he decided which life suited him.
“What about what we wanted?” Tasha asked.
Marcus sighed.
“This is getting dramatic.”
I laughed once.
It sounded nothing like me.
“You moved a woman into our investment house and told her your wife was gone. Which part should we discuss calmly?”
He glanced toward the street.
A neighbor was watering plants across the road.
I could see him remembering that appearances mattered.
I stepped inside.
Marcus moved as if to block me, then thought better of it.
The living room held more than my furniture. Two framed photographs stood on the mantel.
In one, he and Tasha sat at a restaurant.
In the other, they stood in this kitchen.
He was smiling the same smile he wore in the photograph from last night.
I took my phone out and photographed the room.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Recording what I found.”
“You don’t need evidence against your own husband.”
“I need something that stays true after you start talking.”
Tasha looked toward the staircase.
“My things are upstairs. I’m going to pack.”
Marcus turned sharply.
“Wait.”
She stopped.
“For what?”
“We should discuss this when everyone settles down.”
“I am settled,” she said. “I’m leaving.”
I watched him lose control of the situation one sentence at a time.
Then he changed his approach.
“Nia, I made a mistake.”
“For six weeks?”
“It wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Which part? The affair or getting caught?”
He stared at me.
I walked into the kitchen. A small whiteboard hung beside the refrigerator.
Wednesday: Marcus home late.
Friday: Dinner with Mom.
Sunday: Garden center.
I thought of the empty spaces in my own calendar where he had asked me not to make plans.
Work dinner.
Supplier meeting.
Property inspection.
The same hours, given different names.
On the counter lay a stack of mail. My name appeared on the top envelope.
I picked it up.
Marcus reached for it.
“That’s old paperwork.”
I held it away.
The envelope came from a lender I did not recognize.
“Why is this addressed to me here?”
“We talked about financing.”
“No. We talked about the renovation budget.”
He pressed his lips together.
Tasha came down with a suitcase.
She saw the envelope in my hand.
“Is that the loan?” she asked.
I turned toward her.
“What loan?”
Marcus said her name sharply.
She ignored him.
“He told me you signed the refinance so he could buy out your share.”
I looked at my husband.
The room became very quiet.
“I didn’t sign a refinance.”
He swallowed.
“You must have forgotten.”
I held the envelope against my chest.
May you like
I had arrived looking for an explanation of his betrayal.
Now I wondered what else he had done while I trusted him.
