Chapter 2 #2
The most recent messages are from last week, explicit plans to meet at a hotel near Daniel’s office during his “lunch break,” complete with a photo of the room key and a message about how “worth the wait” she’s going to be.
I scroll back further, my thumb moving faster now, past the dates that blur together, afternoons when he was “working late,” weekends when he “needed to clear his head with a drive,” nights when he came to bed smelling like soap and mint gum and something I couldn’t quite place.
Then I find something even worse. A message thread timestamped two days after the twins were born.
The day they were transferred to the NICU because Maisie’s breathing was irregular and Milo had developed jaundice.
The day I sat in a plastic chair between their two tiny plastic isolation beds, my body still bleeding, my breasts aching, watching the monitors track each laboured breath.
Daniel: “Can’t meet tonight. Things complicated with the babies. In NICU.”
Lexi: “Oh no! Poor things. Hope they’re okay. Thinking of you. Let me know when I can help take your mind off things.”
Daniel: “Will do. Might be a few days. They’re keeping them for observation.”
Lexi: “No rush. I’ll be here. Send pics when you can?”
And then, twenty minutes later:
Daniel: “Here’s one of me in the hospital bathroom. Thinking of you.”
There’s a photo attached. I don’t open it. I don’t need to.
The lawn mower is still going outside, but the sound has changed, it’s making a different pitch of noise now, which means Daniel is almost finished with the front yard and heading back towards the house. I have maybe five minutes before he comes inside.
I carefully move Milo down onto the sofa, thankfully keeping him asleep as I switch to my own phone, open the camera app, and select screen recording.
Then I go back to Daniel’s phone and start scrolling.
I capture everything I can stomach, usernames, photos, timestamps, the specific messages about hotels and motels and the back seat of his car in the parking lot behind his office.
I record the calendar where he’s marked our anniversary in one colour and his meetups with the women in another.
I record the Venmo transactions, $40 for “drinks” on a Tuesday night when he told me he was working late.
$60 for “dinner” the night before Maisie’s one-month checkup.
My hands are steady. My breathing is even. The only sign that anything is wrong is the single tear that tracks down my cheek and lands on the back of my hand, a perfect round drop that I watch with detached curiosity, as if it belongs to someone else.
The lawn mower cuts off. Just like that, the mechanical hum replaced by sudden, overwhelming silence.
I close everything, each app, each folder, each incriminating thread, with quick, efficient movements.
I put the phone back on the coffee table, just where it was, screen facing down, case slightly askew the way Daniel always leaves it.
I pick up my paperback from beside the couch cushion, open it to a random page, and settle back against the pillows just as the back door opens and closes.
Daniel appears in the doorway to the living room, sweaty and flushed from the heat, grass clippings stuck to his shoes. “Hey,” he says, his voice warm and familiar. “You want me to start dinner? I was thinking pasta.”
I look up from my book, my face arranged in what I hope is a normal expression. “Yes please,” I say, my voice steady. “That would be great.”
He smiles, the same smile he’s been giving me for years, the one that used to make my stomach flip, and disappears into the kitchen. A moment later, I hear the water running, the soft clatter of pots being moved from cabinet to stove.
My phone buzzes on the cushion beside me.
Harper’s name appears on the screen, along with a text: “Just finished the draft of chapter twelve and I’m having a crisis of confidence.
Can you read it and tell me if the cheating husband is too much of a cartoon villain?
I’m trying to make him human while still making readers want to feed him to wolves. ”
I stare at the message, at Harper’s name, at the small heart emoji she’s added at the end. The words swim slightly, then switch back into focus.
I don’t answer her though. I’m not ready to talk about anything, let alone a cheating husband right now.
The house is exactly the same as it was twenty minutes ago.
The same toys on the floor, the same laundry waiting to be folded, the same half-finished coffee on the side table.
Daniel is in the kitchen, making pasta the way he always does, sauce from a jar but with extra garlic because he knows I like it.
Outside, the lawn mower sits silent on the freshly cut grass.
In the bassinet by the window, Maisie makes a small, sleepy sound and settles back into dreams.
Nothing has changed. And yet, everything has changed.
I sit perfectly still on the couch, my book open in my lap, and wait for my world to make sense again.