Chapter Seven
CHAPTER SEVEN
“You must be mistaken,” I manage to say after several moments. I swallow hard, fighting a rising thickness in the back of my throat.
“I wish I was.” Caprice pulls out her phone and taps the screen.
“Anton looks like a lot of guys,” I say. “You said yourself they all use aliases. The pictures are probably fake too. I’m sure it’s just some dude with similar features ‘cause he would never?—”
She holds her phone out to me.
There’s a picture of a man on the screen. But I don’t reach for it, not yet. I keep my hands in my lap, moving air in and out of my lungs like a machine. I need to stay in this moment for five more seconds, before I have to see that face and think. My phone vibrates with what must be a lengthy voicemail from Scarlet, but for once I don’t care who didn’t show up for work, which customer complained, or what kind of crisis might’ve happened with the plumbing. I’m too busy trying not to imagine my husband’s golden skin and rock-hard abs under another woman’s hands.
Caprice clears her throat. “Username: MountainMan3; Age: 31; Height 6’1”; Eyes: hazel; Hair: brown.”
She lists these details like they mean something. Like they don’t describe any average thirty-one-year-old white guy looking to cheat on his wife.
“Enjoys: Intimate mornings on the beach, naughty afternoons in a hotel bed. Looking for illicit experiences out of town to?—”
“ Stop .” I slap my hand against the table.
“Lyd.” Her voice softens. “Look, I don’t want to hurt you. But I don’t want him to either.”
She rests the phone on the table in front of me, and despite the warm day, I shiver. Then my eyes focus on the screen. On a handsome smiling face with a square, clean-shaven jaw. The lines around his mouth so familiar I could draw them with my eyes closed. My heart sinks as I recognize the photograph, though at first I can’t remember where it’s from. There’s something odd about the way it’s cropped, the way he’s crammed over to one side. It’s clearly not the whole picture, but I’m not sure what’s missing. He doesn’t look into the camera, but there’s a smirk on his face. The kind he gets when he’s amused but doesn’t want to admit it. Like someone told a stupid joke and he couldn’t help but laugh. I stare at him for a second, at the trees in the background, the collar of his shirt—and then I know. The pic is from my sister’s wedding last year. And if you looked at it and thought something was missing, you’d be right. Because I was right on his arm when it was taken, laughing at the same joke.
He’s cut me out of the picture. Literally.
I have a framed copy of this photo in its entirety in my office at The Pooch Park. Anton wears a suit every day for work, but since I spend my days with dogs, it’s rare I get to dress up, and I loved how we looked together. Him in a suit, me in a form-fitting blue cocktail dress. I wasn’t a bridesmaid, so I wore something I actually liked. We looked like the ideal couple. Young, attractive, successful.
Happy?
I had thought so.
I study the cropped version again, and in a moment of fatalistic clarity, I can see why he chose it. He looks great in the shot. Sexy, mature, and ready to pounce. It would’ve been the ideal profile picture if my head hadn’t been resting on his shoulder.
The screen of Caprice’s phone times out and goes black in front of me.
I don’t look up. I don’t want to see the expression my friends will wear when they feel sorry for me. When they think I’ve been cheated on.
Caprice puts a gentle hand on my arm. “Look, a friend of mine knows an attorney and?—”
“ What? ” I blink at her.
She pulls back, sitting straighter in her chair. “Lyd, he has a profile on?—”
“It doesn’t mean anything.” I pause, trying to rein in the shrillness of my voice. “Not necessarily.”
Her mouth presses into a thin line. “Sure. Look, why don’t you just take some time to process? You probably shouldn’t do anything right away.”
I shake my head, absently bringing my empty mug to my lips. Is she just assuming we’ll divorce ? Anton and I could never split up. I mean, okay, we have our problems, but we have a solid foundation. One unverified online profile hardly means our marriage is over.
Is it?
I close my eyes. When we got married straight out of college, my mom said we were too young. She warned I wouldn’t be enough for him, that he’d get tired of me just like Dad. But all our friends said we were the forever couple. The ones who were supposed to make it. We’ve been together ten years, married seven, and had So. Much. Promise.
But we couldn’t hack it . . .
No.
He couldn’t.
I ball my fists, moisture welling in my eyes. I hate the possibility that my mother might’ve been right.
Caprice clears her throat. “Had he said anything recently? Did you know he was unhappy?”
I stare at her, trying to make sense of her question. Did I know? How could I possibly have known? I open my mouth to make this obvious point, but a twinge in my gut stops me before I can say it out loud. Anton hasn’t said he’s unhappy. But he slept on the couch all night Saturday, and we haven’t had much conversation outside of the changing weather, what to eat, and of course, the Pooches.
“I...” My face heats, my voice coming out a whisper. “I’ve been a little preoccupied...”
Her brows knit with sympathy. “Of course. You’re busy. Anyone who knows you can see that.”
I shake my head, thinking back to Saturday night. I had tried. We didn’t wind up going out because I was tired, but I still came home and rallied. I jumped in the shower right away, washing off all the dog hair and grime. Even though I still had a million things I needed to do for work after we ate, I put all of that aside and followed him to bed, figuring I’d give him a happy surprise. I never really know how to get things started, but I was assertive, reaching out for him in the dark. When I guided his hand inside my pants, inviting him to explore further, I thought he’d be excited to slide my clothes off and take care of the rest. We’ve done it that way before. He slips in from behind and we do it on our sides. It’s actually more comfortable for me that way, not so intense. He can reach around and grab where he wants, and it’s easy to fall asleep after.
But that isn’t what happened.
He got up and left instead.
A tear tracks down my cheek, and Caprice grabs my hand. “Lydia?”
I meet her gaze for the first time since I became the friend whose husband cheats and her face is everything I dreaded it would be. “I tried,” I say, fighting to breathe through a rapidly clogging nose. “I’ve been trying.”
Caprice’s grasp tightens around mine. “Hey. No way are you going to blame yourself for this. No married person gets to just date other people when things get hard. Whatever else has been happening”—she waves her phone in front of me—“ this is on him.”
I hear her speaking, trying to say something comforting, but before her words even reach me, my doubts drown them out. He booked us a vacation. Planned a whole getaway at that hot springs place in the mountains. But I panicked about work and refused to go. Okay, if I’m honest, I guess I panicked a little about his intimate expectations too. Is that what triggered all this? What if I’d said yes instead? Would any of this be happening now?
My phone buzzes with a text. Not from Anton. Just Tomás asking if I’m still picking up donuts for the staff meeting this afternoon. I drag my gaze back to Caprice, my voice croaking. “I need to get back to work.”
She frowns. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Maybe you should?—”
“What else am I going to do?” I snap with venom that isn’t meant for her. Honestly, the thought of having to speak to my employees or interact with other people at all makes me nauseous right now, but not as much as the thought of going home. “I’m sorry. I just need to do something normal...maybe not think about this for a while.”
She presses her lips together and nods. “You want to stay at my place tonight? Clear your head? I’ve got Netflix and ice cream.”
“That sounds nice,” I say. “Thank you.”
She clears our dishes, offering to drive me back to work in my car since she ran here, and I let her. She even takes me through the line at Dunkin’ Donuts. I hug her as she drops me off, thanking her again and vaguely processing her saying she’ll come get me after we close.
But as I approach my business, I slow. I’m not the same woman I was the last time I walked through the front door. That woman had a bright, secure future with a faithful husband who would always love and cherish her. She left for work and went about her daily life knowing she’d return home, climb contentedly into bed with him, and start it all again tomorrow. Now, that woman is gone.
I don’t know who I am anymore.
I avoid looking at Tomás or anyone else on my way into The Pooch Park, dropping the donuts on the counter and making a beeline for my office. But as soon as I step through the door, I’m overwhelmed by eighty-five pounds of fur and slobbery kisses. Which is somehow exactly what I need. I sink to the floor, shaking and burying my face in my dog’s neck, letting Heartthrob try his best to heal the hole in my heart.