His wife:
I hated sleeping alone after you left.
Boss:
You weren’t alone long.
Another.
Four months earlier.
Boss:
I can still smell your perfume in my car.
The husband’s knees weakened.
He pulled out a kitchen stool.
Sat.
Every late night rearranged itself.
Every private call.
Every time she recoiled from him.
Every moment he had interpreted as stress.
His mind started chasing dates.
He stopped it.
There would be time for dates.
He looked toward the front door.
He should leave.
Instead his eyes landed on a framed photograph near the breakfast nook.
His wife and her boss at a company charity gala.
Several employees around them.
The boss’s wife stood at the far end of the group.
The husband had met her twice.
Quiet woman.
Dark hair.
Former accountant, if he remembered correctly.
He looked again at the email.
Sweetheart.
Same place.
9:30.
His wife was going to meet a married man.
The husband pulled out his phone.
Calling a lawyer seemed obvious.
He would.
Calling his sister might help emotionally.
Later.
But one person could answer the question he suddenly could not stop thinking about.
Did the boss’s wife know?
If she knew and they had some arrangement, that changed one part of the truth.
If she did not, then two marriages were being lied to.
He found her number through an old holiday group text his wife’s company had created after a dinner.
His thumb hovered.
This could be cruel.
Vindictive.
Reckless.
He almost put the phone down.
Then he remembered the sentence.
Wear the red one tonight, sweetheart.
He called.
She answered after four rings.
“Hello?”
The husband gave his name.