My Husband Cheated With My Identical Twin

Chapter 1—Christa

TATE COMES HOME WHILE I’m eating dinner at the kitchen island, which is surprising enough that I check the clock. Seven forty-three. He’s been home before eight exactly twice this month. One of those times, he changed clothes and left again twenty minutes later, so I’m not sure it counts.

I set my fork beside the plate as he walks into the kitchen.

He’s still wearing the charcoal suit he left in this morning, minus the tie.

His dark hair looks exactly as it did at breakfast. Tate has always possessed an impressive ability to work fourteen hours without appearing to have participated in any of them. “You’re home early.”

He opens the refrigerator and looks inside. “Apparently.”

I consider pointing out that most people regard almost eight o’clock as evening rather than an early departure from work. I decide against it. I’ve become much better at deciding against things during the last six months. “There’s chicken in the oven if you’re hungry.”

“I ate at the club.” Tate takes a bottle of sparkling water from the refrigerator and closes the door.

That would’ve been useful information before I cooked enough for two, but the leftovers will make a decent lunch tomorrow. I pick up my fork again. “How was your day?”

“Long.” He twists the cap from the bottle and heads toward the stairs.

That appears to be the complete report. I watch him reach the kitchen doorway before calling after him. “Tate.”

He stops and looks back, his impatience already showing. “What?”

“We need to talk about Dr. Levine.” His expression changes before I finish the sentence. Tate doesn’t shout about our fertility problems. He has never thrown anything or accused me outright of failing at the most basic function of a wife. His quiet certainty does the work for him.

“What about her?” He stays near the doorway instead of coming back.

“Her office called this afternoon. She wants to schedule the follow-up.”

Tate rubs his thumb along the label on the water bottle. “I thought you already did that.”

“I did my follow-up.”

He closes his eyes for a second before looking toward the stairs. “Christa, I’m tired.”

“I’m aware. You mention it every time I bring this up.” I leave my fork on the plate because my appetite is disappearing anyway.

His attention returns to me. “Then perhaps you could take the hint.”

The chicken turns to paste in my mouth. I swallow what I can and reach for my water. “She’s still recommending a semen analysis.”

“We’ve discussed this.” Tate takes another drink.

“We’ve avoided this.”

His posture changes, irritation pulling him straighter. “I haven’t avoided anything.”

I stare at him for a second. Tate is an intelligent man.

He graduated near the top of his class at Wharton, understands financial instruments that make my eyes cross, and can remember the terms of a contract he read six months ago.

Apparently, none of those talents extend to recognizing what refusing the same appointment three times looks like.

“You’ve refused to make the appointment every time she’s recommended it.”

“There’s no reason for me to make it.” He walks back toward the island, although I don’t mistake that for renewed interest in the conversation.

“Dr. Levine disagrees.”

“Dr. Levine is your doctor.” Tate sets the bottle on the counter between us.

I roll my eyes. “She’s a reproductive endocrinologist treating us as a couple because we’re the couple trying to have a baby.”

He looks down at my mostly untouched dinner. “Your testing isn’t complete.”

“The tests I’ve had haven’t shown a problem.”

He shrugs. “Which doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”

I absorb that quietly. Four years ago, I would’ve challenged him immediately. Two years ago, I would’ve tried to explain why that hurt. Six months ago, I might have asked whether he understood what he was implying. Tonight, I mostly wonder whether the leftover chicken will freeze well.

“No, it doesn’t,” I agree. “It also doesn’t prove there is one.”

Tate studies me. “You’re taking this personally.”

A laugh almost escapes. “We’re discussing my reproductive system. I think I’m allowed some personal involvement.”

“You know what I mean.” He picks up his bottle again.

“I actually don’t anymore.” Once, the look he gives me would’ve made me nervous. I would have searched his expression for whatever I’d done wrong and tried to repair the conversation before it became an argument. Now I reach for my water.

Tate comes around the island and stops a few feet away. “What exactly do you want from me?”

“I want you to have the test the doctor recommended.”

He sneers. “Your doctor.”

“Our doctor for this purpose.” I hold his gaze. “She’s asking for information she doesn’t have.”

“Nothing suggests I’m the problem.”

“Nothing suggests I am either.”

His expression hardens. “Except that you haven’t gotten pregnant.”

The sentence hurts more than I want it to.

I’ve spent months getting better at caring less about Tate’s opinion, but apparently some things require more practice.

I push my plate away. “That proves I haven’t gotten pregnant.

It introduces the possibility your sperm isn’t healthy enough to get me pregnant. ” It’s a low blow, but I’m tired too.

His ears turn red. “I have five sisters. My uncle and grandfather each had almost a dozen children. My line is proven. After almost three years of trying, it’s obvious who has the problem.” He gestures toward me with the bottle as if the length of time settles the argument.

His logic is garbage, but I don’t call him on it. I simply don’t care enough to bother anymore. “I’m familiar with the timeline.”

“Then you understand my point.”

I shake my head. “I understand that you’ve decided the absence of a pregnancy means something is wrong with me.”

“I didn’t say that.” Tate sounds offended by my interpretation.

He literally implied it heavily. “You didn’t need to.” I get up and carry my plate toward the sink because sitting beneath his scrutiny has become unbearable.

He follows me with his attention. “I don’t know why every conversation about this has to become an accusation.”

“Neither do I.” I scrape a piece of chicken from one side of the plate to the other without throwing it away yet.

The old version of me would have backed down by now. She spent a lot of time making sure Tate never thought she was unreasonable. I don’t particularly miss her.

I turn toward him. “I’ve had bloodwork, ultrasounds, imaging, and more conversations about cervical mucus than any woman should be required to endure in one lifetime.

I’ve taken medication to increase our odds.

I’ve tracked temperatures, hormones, cycles, and timing.

Dr. Levine says the next logical step is testing you. You’re refusing.”

“I don’t need a lecture.” Tate shifts his weight toward the doorway.

“Good. I don’t enjoy giving them.”

He takes another drink before speaking. “Maybe we should stop trying for a while.”

The suggestion surprises me enough that I stay beside the sink instead of answering. We’ve stopped before, usually for a month when I couldn’t tolerate another scheduled attempt at intimacy or another pregnancy test.

Tate always objected. His family doesn’t pressure us openly, but the Meades have a talent for making expectations sound like casual conversation.

His mother asks about grandchildren. Specifically, male grandchildren with the last name Meade. She has seven from her five daughters, but they all carry different last names than Meade. That doesn’t count for them or their ridiculous trust that requires a male heir to inherit.

His father talks about legacy. Tate’s grandmother refers to the next generation as though she’s expecting delivery confirmation.

Tate has wanted a child from the beginning. Increasingly, he talks about that child as an heir. I used to treat the words as interchangeable.

“For how long?” I ask.

He looks toward the kitchen window. “I don’t know.”

“Until when?”

“Until you figure out what’s going on.” He says it with the same impatience he uses when someone at work hasn’t solved a problem quickly enough.

The pronoun hurts worse than it should. You. I look down at my dinner. The rosemary chicken still smells good, which seems unfair considering I can’t imagine eating another bite. “My doctor has been trying to figure it out.”

“Then maybe you need a different doctor.” Tate reaches for his phone when it vibrates in his pocket, checks the screen, and puts it away.

I nod because arguing about Dr. Levine is pointless. “Maybe.”

He apparently hears agreement rather than defeat. His posture eases. “I can ask Mother who Celeste used.”

His sister Celeste has four children and an unfortunate habit of describing each pregnancy, all girls, as an accident. Perhaps she knows a magical doctor who can diagnose a woman by looking at her across a country club dining room.

“There’s no need.”

“It wouldn’t hurt.” Tate reaches for his water again.

“I said there’s no need.”

He gives me a long look. “Why are you being so defensive?”

“I’m done discussing it tonight.” I finally scrape the dinner into the trash and set my plate in the sink.

“You’re the one who started the conversation.”

“Yes. That was optimistic of me.” I rinse the plate before putting it in the dishwasher.

Tate doesn’t appreciate the joke. He used to laugh with me more. He used to think I was funny, and I used to think he was too. Somewhere between ovulation calendars and family dinners where his mother found increasingly creative ways to ask about my uterus, we stopped laughing together.

He leaves the kitchen without another word. I stand beside the sink until I hear his footsteps on the stairs, then wrap the remaining chicken and put it in the refrigerator. Apparently, I still care whether it freezes well.