3. What He Did With His Time
Chapter Three
WHAT HE DID WITH HIS TIME
Justin sleeps in late, but I don’t.
By seven, I’ve showered, made coffee, stripped the guest-room bed, moved two of his pillows in there, and called a plumber.
The plumber can come Monday, and it will cost eighty-five dollars plus parts. I book him.
I cancel Sunday dinner with Justin’s mother, and she texts five minutes later.
Everything okay?
I stare blankly at the question, then type: You should ask Justin.
Around eight thirty, I pull up our joint credit-card account and find seventy-three dollars spent at Party Planet. Justin told me it was association supplies.
There are also two restaurant charges I don’t recognize and a hardware-store purchase. Nothing proves anything, yet everything feels suspicious.
At ten, Justin appears in the kitchen wearing sweatpants and yesterday’s T-shirt. He looks terrible, and I’m glad.
“Morning.”
“No.”
He stops. “What?”
“It isn’t a good morning.”
“I didn’t say good.”
“Then we agree.”
He opens the refrigerator, stares inside, closes it. “You could’ve woken me.”
“Why?”
“So we could talk.”
“You’re awake now.”
His eyes land on my laptop. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to understand what’s happening in my marriage.”
“Brooke.”
“Sit.”
Something in my tone works. He sits.
“How long have you been seeing Julia?”
“I’m not seeing her.”
I give him a long look. “You spent weeks planning a secret party with her.”
“That’s not an affair, and it wasn’t secret.”
“You told me not to come.”
“Because you’re tired.”
I wait.
“Fine,” he says. “I thought it might be awkward.”
“For whom?”
He shrugs. “For everybody.”
“Why would it be awkward if she’s just an old friend?”
He exhales. “You’re trying to make this something it isn’t.”
“Then show me your phone.”
His expression changes. “What?”
I hold out my hand. “Give me your phone.”
“No.” The answer comes too quickly.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not handing over my private conversations so you can dissect every sentence.”
“Private from your wife?”
“Everyone deserves some privacy,” he says.
“That’s an interesting principle to discover this morning.”
“Brooke.”
I fold my arms. “Where were you the Saturday I cleaned the garage?”
“I told you.”
“No. You told me you had association obligations.”
“I did.”
“Where were they?”
He rubs his forehead. “I stopped at the station.”
“For how long?”
“An hour maybe.”
“And then?”
Silence.
“Justin.”
“Julia needed help with shelves.”
The sentence is so mundane that for a moment I don’t absorb it.
“Shelves.”
“She bought that older house on Willow Lane.”
“I know.”
“She’s fixing it up.”
“And you’re helping.”
“A little.”
“How little?”
His eyes drop toward the table, and my stomach tightens.
“What have you done there?” I ask.
“Brooke, it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
The list comes grudgingly. He put up shelves in the laundry room, fixed a porch railing, installed two light fixtures, moved a dresser upstairs, cleaned the gutters, and painted the guest room.
I stop him. “You painted a bedroom.”
“It needed paint.”
“So does ours.”
“Ours is fine.”
“The ceiling is peeling near the window.”
“That’s not the same.”
“How is it different?”
He doesn’t answer.
I glance toward the patio. The bucket is visible through the glass door.
“Did you fix her faucet?”
His face gives him away, and a hollow sensation opens inside me.
“You did.”
“It was spraying.”
I laugh once. “Ours has leaked for three weeks.”
“Ours isn’t urgent.”
“You told me you didn’t have time.”
“She needed somebody.”
That’s his defense, as if he’s been performing a public service.
I stand so quickly my chair scrapes across the floor. “And what exactly did you think I needed?” I’m shaking now. “How many times have you been at her house?”
“I don’t know.”
“Five?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Ten?”
His jaw shifts.
“All those nights you were late?”
“It wasn’t always Julia.”
“How often was it Julia?”
“Brooke.”
“How often?”
“A lot lately.”
I sit back down because my knees suddenly don’t feel reliable. “What happened between you?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you think I’m an idiot? Stop saying that.”
“We’re friends.”
“You lie to your wife so you can spend time with your ex-girlfriend,” I say. “That’s already something.”
“It isn’t what you think.”
“Show me the phone.”
“No.”
“Then tell me.”
He pushes his chair back slightly. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Did you kiss her?”
His eyes flicker, and everything inside me drops.
“Oh, my God.”
“She kissed me.”
I grip the seat of the chair. “When?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“Where?”
“Her house.”
“Why?”
“She was upset.”
“And?”
“I hugged her. She kissed me.”
“What did you do?”
“I left.”
“Did you tell me?”
“No.”
“Did you stop going to her house?”
Silence.
“Did you kiss her again?”
“No.”
I hold his gaze, and a muscle jumps near his mouth. I know that tell.
“Justin.”
He looks away.
“How many times?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Did it happen again?”
He won’t meet my eyes. “A couple times.”
“Two?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know how many times you kissed another woman?”
“It was stupid.”
“What was it?”
His face twists. “Familiar.”
That word hurts deeply in a way I wasn’t expecting.
“Familiar.”
“We were together a long time when we were young. Sometimes it just—” He stops.
“Just what?”
“Happened like a habit.” My husband is describing kissing his ex as muscle memory.
I press my palm against my stomach. “And you kept going back. Why?”
“I liked talking to her.”
“About what?”
“Old stuff. School. People we knew. Things before…” He trails off.
“Before me?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
But it is. Julia knew Justin before mortgages and leaking faucets and elderly parents and forms that needed signatures. She knew him when his biggest responsibility was deciding where to go on Friday night, and apparently she gets to have that man again while I manage the adult version.
“Did you sleep with her?”
“No.”
“Are you sure you remember?”
His eyes flash. “That’s not fair.”
“None of this is fair, Justin.”
He looks into my eyes directly now. “I have not slept with Julia.”
“Have you touched her under her clothes?”
“No.”
“Has she touched you?”
“No.”
I don’t know whether he’s telling the truth or not, and he sees my hesitation.
“I swear.” He leans toward me. “I never planned to leave you.”
For a second, I genuinely cannot speak. “You think that makes this better?”
“I’m saying Julia isn’t replacing you.”
My skin crawls. “So what was the plan?”
“There wasn’t one.”
“You spend your free time playing handyman at her house, lie to me, kiss her whenever nostalgia strikes, plan parties with her, and then come home to me.”
“It sounds bad when you say it like that,” he says.
“It is bad.”
“I love you.”
That’s the problem. He probably does. He apparently believes love and loyalty are separate categories. He can love his wife while borrowing excitement from someone else, because in his mind, I’m permanent.
“I never planned to leave,” he says again.
I get to my feet. Anger has made my knees more stable. “That may be the worst thing you’ve told me.”
His face pales. “Brooke.”
“Pack a bag.”
He recoils as if I’ve slapped him. “What?”
“I don’t want you here tonight.”
“This is my house too.”
“And I’m your wife, but that doesn’t seem to matter to you.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” he says.
There was a time when that question would have triggered immediate problem-solving. Brett’s spare room? His mother’s? A motel? I would’ve arranged his exile for him.
Instead, I shrug. “I’m sure Julia has another project for you.”