Chapter 2 Emma
The suitcase sat by the front door, zipped and ready. His work suits. Enough shirts and pants for a week. Toiletries from the bathroom. I'd packed methodically, efficiently, the same way I'd document a patient chart. Everything he'd need.
My hands weren't shaking anymore. That surprised me. I sat on the couch in the dark, phone in my lap, and my hands were perfectly still.
Inside, though, I was falling apart.
But outwardly, I was calm. Years of ICU nursing had taught me that. You can be terrified and exhausted and heartbroken, and your hands will still do what they need to do. Your face will stay neutral. Your voice will stay steady.
The engine cut off. Car door opened, then closed. His footsteps on the walkway.
I took a breath. Held it. Let it out slowly.
The key slid into the lock.
The door opened. Light from the hallway spilled into the dark living room. David's silhouette filled the doorway: briefcase in one hand, phone in the other, shoulders slumped with exhaustion that I might have felt sorry for if I didn't know where he'd actually been all night.
He stepped inside and fumbled for the light switch.
"Emma? You still up?"
His voice was warm. Concerned, even. Like he gave a shit whether I was awake or asleep or dead on the kitchen floor.
The light came on.
He saw me first, sitting on the couch, phone in my lap. Staring at him.
For a second, I just looked at him. Really looked at him.
David. My husband. The man I'd fallen in love with in college, who used to bring me coffee during all-nighters, who'd held my hand when I got my med school acceptance letter and cried with me when I turned it down.
Still handsome at thirty-two, in that polished lawyer way.
Sharp jawline, dark hair he kept just long enough to run his fingers through.
He looked exhausted. Tie loosened, shirt wrinkled, the kind of worn-down that came from a long day at the office.
Except he hadn't been at the office.
I thought about Sarah in those photos. The way she'd looked at the camera.
The way she'd posed for him, knowing he'd be looking at them later.
I wondered if he touched her face the same way he used to touch mine.
If he kissed her the same way. If she got the version of him I'd fallen in love with, or if that man had disappeared years ago and I'd just been too blind to notice.
David's face shifted. Confusion, maybe. Or the first hint of wariness.
Then his eyes tracked to the suitcase by the door.
He froze.
"What…" He looked back at me, then at the suitcase again. "Emma, what's going on?"
I didn't say anything. Just watched him. Watched the gears turning behind his eyes as he tried to figure out what this meant, how much trouble he was in, what story he could tell to make this okay.
"Babe, what is this?" He set down his briefcase, took a step toward me. His foot stopped just short of the wine stain on the carpet. Dark red, already set into the fibers. I'd cleaned up the glass, but the stain was still there.
He looked at it. Looked at me.
Something in his expression changed. The concern flickered. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.
"Sit down, David."
My voice came out calmer than I expected. Flat. Clinical. The same tone I used when I had to tell a family member their loved one wasn't going to make it.
He sat. Slowly. On the edge of the armchair across from me, hands on his knees, like he was ready to bolt at any second.
"Emma—"
"All I want from you tonight is the truth." I kept my eyes on his. "That's it. Just the truth. Can you do that?"
He blinked, then shook his head slightly, like he was trying to clear it. "The truth about what? Emma, you're scaring me. What's going on?"
His voice was so convincing. Concerned. Confused. If I hadn't spent the last hour reading his messages to another woman, if I didn't already know what was coming, I might have wanted to believe him.
God, part of me still wanted to.
"The truth about what?" I repeated. My voice stayed level, but something sharp crept into it. "Really? That's how you want to do this?"
"I don't—" He spread his hands, the picture of innocent confusion. "I don't know what you're talking about. I came home and there's a suitcase by the door and you're sitting in the dark and—" He gestured at the wine stain. "Did something happen? Just tell me what's wrong and we can fix it."
We can fix it.
Like this was some misunderstanding. Some problem we could work through together.
I picked up my phone. Unlocked it. Turned the screen toward him.
"Does this help?"
His eyes dropped to the screen. I watched his face as he read. Watched the exact moment he recognized what he was seeing: his iMessages with Sarah, the conversation thread open, her name at the top.
Something flickered across his expression. Not quite panic. Not quite guilt. Something in between.
"Emma." He looked up at me. "We work together. You know that. She's co-counsel on the case, we have to coordinate—"
"Do you want me to start reading them out loud?" My voice was still calm. Too calm. "Because I can. I've had plenty of time to go through all of them. Months' worth, actually."
His mouth opened. Closed. The color was draining from his face now.
"Or maybe I should start with the photos she sent you? Would that be easier?"
"Emma—"
"The truth, David." I leaned forward slightly. "That's all I asked for. And you looked me in the eye and pretended you had no idea what I was talking about."
He was quiet for a long moment. His hands gripped his knees. When he finally spoke, his voice was different. Quieter. Almost resigned.
"I never meant for this to happen."
I waited.
"Sarah and I… when we reconnected for the case, it was just professional at first. But we have history, you know?
And we were spending so much time together, and—" He ran a hand through his hair.
"Things have been hard between us, Emma.
You've been so busy with work, and I've been busy, and we barely see each other anymore.
We've been drifting apart for months. Maybe longer. "
I stared at him.
He was blaming me.
Not directly. Not in so many words. But that's what this was. Things have been hard. Like our marriage falling apart was a mutual failure. Like my working twelve-hour shifts to keep people alive was somehow equivalent to him fucking his college friend in hotel rooms.
"So this is my fault?" The words came out sharper than I intended. My control was slipping. "I work too much, so you had no choice but to sleep with Sarah?"
"That's not what I'm saying." He leaned forward, like he was trying to make me understand.
"But Emma, come on. You have to admit we haven't been connected in months.
When was the last time we had a real conversation?
When was the last time we went on a date, or even had dinner together?
You're always at the hospital, and when you're home, you're exhausted.
I'm not saying what I did was right, but you can't pretend like everything was fine between us. "
The room tilted slightly. Or maybe that was just me.
He was serious. He actually thought this was a reasonable explanation. That our marriage having problems, problems I didn't even know we had, somehow justified five months of lying to my face. Of using my work schedule to plan his affair. Of coming home and kissing me after being with her.
Inside, I was screaming. Inside, I wanted to throw something, to hit him, to make him feel even a fraction of what I was feeling right now.
My hands were shaking again. My vision was blurring at the edges.
Everything he was saying was making it worse, making it more real, making me realize that the man sitting across from me wasn't the person I thought I'd married.
But I didn't let him see it.
I took a breath. Slow and steady.
"How long?" My voice came out quiet. Too quiet.
He hesitated. "Emma—"
"How long have you been sleeping with her, David?"
Silence. He opened his mouth. Closed it. I could see him thinking, calculating, trying to figure out what I already knew and what he could still get away with lying about.
I didn't wait for him to decide.
"I'll answer for you. Five months. At least. The first charge on that credit card you thought I'd forgotten about was five months ago.
So five months you've been sleeping with her.
Five months you've been lying to me. Coming home and kissing me after being with her.
" My voice stayed level. Eerily calm. "Hope it was worth it. "
"Emma, please, just let me—"
"I want you out of this house."
The words came out flat. Final. Like I was ending a shift, handing off a patient chart.
"What?" His face went pale. "Emma, wait—"
"Tonight. Right now. Your suitcase is packed. You can stay with Sarah, or a hotel, or whatever. I don't care. But you're not sleeping here."
"We need to talk about this—"
"No." I stood up. My legs felt steadier than they should have. "We really don't. Not tonight."
"Emma, please." He stood too, reaching for me. "I love you. I made a mistake, but I love you. We can work through this."
I stepped back before he could touch me.
"You don't get to touch me. Not after her."
Something in his face crumbled. Good.
"The suitcase is by the door. I'll be filing for divorce in the morning." I walked past him toward the stairs, my phone still in my hand. "Lock the door on your way out."
"Emma—"
I didn't turn around.
"If you're still here when I come back down, I'm calling the police."
I climbed the stairs. Walked into our bedroom. Closed the door.
And then, finally, I let myself fall apart.