Blind to His Marriage

One

Teller

Susanna: When will you be home?

Three dots appear, then disappear. Then appear again.

Susanna: This is the third time this week, Teller.

I feel that familiar irritation prickle at the back of my neck. Why does she always have to make me feel guilty for spending time with my best friend? Frank and I have been tight since college. She knew that when she married me.

Me: I know. I'm sorry. We'll do something this weekend, I promise.

I silence my phone and slip it into my pocket before she can respond. Frank's still talking, but now he's looking past me toward the entrance, and a grin spreads across his face.

"No fucking way," he says, standing up. "Clarissa! Clarissa, over here!"

I turn to see a woman approaching—late twenties, dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, wearing a dress that probably costs more than my car payment. She's beautiful in that polished, intimidating way that makes me immediately uncomfortable.

"Frank!" She air-kisses both his cheeks, then turns those sharp green eyes on me. "And you must be the famous Teller. Frank talks about you constantly."

"Does he?" I stand, shaking her hand. Her grip is firm, confident. "All good things, I hope."

"Mostly." She laughs, sliding into the booth next to Frank. "He mentioned you give excellent advice. I could actually use some of that right now."

Frank flags down the waiter. "Clarissa's going through a career transition. Thought you might have some insights, Tell. You're always so good at seeing things clearly."

Something about this feels off, but I can't put my finger on what. Clarissa orders a martini and immediately launches into her situation—she's considering leaving her corporate job to start her own consulting firm, but she's terrified of the financial risk.

"My ex-husband always said I was too impulsive," she says, swirling her drink. "Maybe he was right."

"Or maybe he was intimidated by your ambition," I hear myself saying. "Sometimes the people closest to us project their own fears onto our dreams."

Her eyes light up. "Exactly! God, that's exactly it. Frank said you'd understand."

We talked for another hour. Frank excuses himself to take a call, leaving Clarissa and me alone. She leans in closer, her perfume—something floral and expensive—filling the space between us.

"Can I be honest with you, Teller?" Her voice drops lower. "I've been feeling so lost lately. Like I don't know who I am anymore outside of what everyone expects me to be."

"I get that," I say, and I mean it. There's something about helping people that makes me feel useful, important. Susanna never seems to need my advice anymore. She's so self-sufficient, so independent. Sometimes I wonder if she even needs me at all.

My phone buzzes. I ignore it.

"You're really easy to talk to," Clarissa says, touching my forearm lightly. "Frank was right about you."

When Frank returns, he suggests we all grab dinner next week. "Clarissa's new to the city. She could use some friends, and you two clearly hit it off."

"Sure," I say, even though something in my gut twists. "That sounds great."

It's past midnight when I finally get home. The house is dark except for the lamp Susanna always leaves on in the living room. I find her curled up on the couch, a book open on her chest, asleep.

She's beautiful like this—peaceful, her blonde hair falling across her face. I feel a pang of guilt for staying out so late, but then I remember how she was texting me, checking up on me like I'm a child who needs supervision.

I'm a grown man. I'm allowed to have friends. I'm allowed to help people.

I head upstairs without waking her.