I couldn’t believe that he wasn’t making an excuse, that there wasn’t an explanation. In the book, they said that the cheater’s first instinct was to lie, to cover their tracks, but he was just rolling over and admitting to it all.
“Look.” He captured my hand and squeezed. “I’ll stop it. It’s done.”
“You should have stopped it on your own.” I yanked free. “I should have never found out about it.” Wouldn’t that have been better? Blissful ignorance. It was sad, but that was all I wanted. To have never noticed anything, to have a husband who had stayed attentive, stayed around, and conducted this fling without me ever growing the wiser. “You were sloppy, Mike. You’ve ignored me.” My anger grew and its focus on his careless cover-up didn’t make sense, but it was still there and raw and bubbling out around each word. “I loved you,” I spat. “I still love you.”
“Oh, Lill,” he said sadly, and his features broke in a way that I hadn’t seen since my miscarriage. “I’ll always love you. This was nothing, I promise. It was me being selfish. And it’s over. Please, please believe me when I tell you that it’s over. I’ll end it today. Right away.”
He cupped my face and stared into my eyes, and my heart sagged in relief and resignation because that was all I wanted to hear. “Jacob—” I said weakly.
“I’m your husband and his father, and I swear to you that I’ll do a better job of both,” he said firmly. “Okay?”
I nodded. What other option did I have? He was a husband and a father, and I was a wife and a mother, and the two roles were intertwined and my life had no other substance.
I flinched at the thought. Was it true? Without my marriage and my motherhood, I had nothing else? My job ... There was that, however bleak last year’s demotion was. My Twitter account ... God, I couldn’t look for purpose in a social media profile.
Was the bulk of my existence, my happiness, balancing on him?
I looked at him in horror and flinched as he smiled, his thumb smearing a falling tear across my cheekbone. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “Look at me. I promise that I’m yours. All yours. I won’t fuck up again.”
I had to change this life. I had to find a better, braver, more independent me before he chewed this version into pieces.
CHAPTER 13
MIKE
I wasn’t lying to her. Sacrifices needed to be made, given whatever she’d discovered. She apparently hadn’t found much out, since she didn’t even know who I’d been with. But enough risk was already present. She knew about Santa Barbara and Tuesday night. Just those two puzzle pieces could unravel everything, if someone wanted to dig deeper.
Thankfully, my wife wasn’t a digger. She was a bare-minimum type, one who took the easy road, so I’d give that to her. A big, wide, beautiful road called Happy Married Life. I’d be the perfect husband. Loyal. Trustworthy. I’d grovel and court, and do all the things necessary to distract her from “the affair” and remind her of our love and family.
She didn’t have other options, so she’d fall back into place. There would be some bitchiness, some punishment, some frigid shoulders and sharp words, but Lillian was a creature of habit and comfort, and the alternative—a forty-year-old divorcée—was not a path she’d want to tread.
But yes, sacrifices would need to be made, which was why I returned to the office, picked up the phone, and made the call. I kept it brief and unemotional.
I ended it.
So there. That was done.
CHAPTER 14
LILLIAN
@themysteryofdeath: A scooter pulls out in front of a truck driver on a quiet island paradise, in sight of a Yorkie-walking teenage girl. Within seconds, the lives of all three will change. Who will die?
I scrubbed burned cheese off an oven grate and stared at David Laurent’s card, which was propped in front of the sink, against the pale-blue glossy backsplash. I should call him. We could grab lunch. I could slip into Taylor’s world, pretend that I was just back from a calendar-buying trip to Florida, and tell him that story about how she—I—hitched a ride through the Everglades on a park ranger’s airboat when her—my—car ran out of gas. Maybe I’d wear that low-cut top that Mike had ignored. I could spend an hour flirting and laughing my way out of heartbreak.
All it would be was a lunch. It didn’t have to be anything more.
I picked up my phone and scrolled through the Twitter responses.
@greengoblin: scooter rider. obviously.
@ryanswife9: that’s why it isn’t the scooter rider, @greengoblin. She never does the obvious one.
@jessbessandtess: Maybe she’s doing the obvious one to throw us off the scent
@planktonsboss: Truck swerved to avoid the scooter, hit the dog-walker. #micdrop
They were off base, and I tried to think of a clue that would be accurate but wouldn’t completely give away the answer—that the truck hit the scooter, the driver thought he’d killed her, and he’d pulled over and shot himself in guilt.