2. Little Things
Chapter Two
LITTLE THINGS
Once I notice the familiarity between Owen and Bree, I begin seeing pieces of it everywhere, although none of those pieces is large enough on its own to warrant an accusation.
On Thursday morning, he texts me just after eight.
Office today?
I stare at the message because I’m almost always at the office on Thursdays.
Yes. Why?
The reply comes a few seconds later.
Just wondering. Love you.
I send back Love you too, then set my phone beside my keyboard and tell myself that husbands are allowed to wonder where their wives are working.
At half past eleven, Owen arrives with three packages, all of which Bree could sign for in under sixty seconds. He spends ten minutes at her desk, and I know because I look at the clock when he comes in, then hate myself enough to look again when he leaves.
The following afternoon, Bree asks me whether Owen finally got the air-conditioning fixed in his van.
I look up from an invoice. “What happened to his van?”
She freezes for the smallest fraction of a second. “The AC?”
“I didn’t know it was broken.”
“Oh,” she says. “I thought you knew.”
That evening I ask him about it, and he acts as though the subject isn’t worth discussing.
“Air-conditioning’s acting up,” he says.
“You didn’t mention it.”
He shrugs. “Not exactly headline news.” Then his eyes narrow. “Why?”
“Bree mentioned it.”
Something flickers across his face so quickly I can’t be sure it was ever there. “Guess I told her when I was dropping stuff off.”
“Guess so.”
I hate this version of myself, the woman who files away pauses and facial expressions, because I’ve never been suspicious by nature.
Owen has always been charming, and I’ve always known it.
He’s the sort of man who can make conversation with a cashier, remember a bartender’s name after one visit, and somehow leave a hardware store knowing the life story of the person who mixed his paint.
I fell in love with that warmth, and I never mistook it for infidelity.
Then I see Bree touch his arm a few days later.
Owen is standing beside the reception desk telling her about a restaurant that opened near the interstate. “You’d love it,” he says. “They have those ridiculous milkshakes with whole pieces of cake stuck on top.”
Bree laughs and places her hand on his forearm. “Oh my God, yes.”
“You’d need insulin afterward.”
“I’d risk it.”
Her fingers remain against him just a little too long, and Owen looks down at her hand before he looks back at her face, but he doesn’t step away.
I clear my throat, and Bree’s hand drops instantly.
Owen turns toward me with an easy smile. “There’s my girl.”
I used to love that phrase. Now it sounds like something he remembers to say for my benefit.
That night, he makes love to me. Or we have sex. I’m not sure which phrase fits anymore.
It’s familiar enough to make my suspicions about Bree seem absurd. Owen still knows how I like to be kissed, and I still know exactly when he’ll shift his weight. When we’re finished, he kisses my shoulder and tells me he loves me, then he rolls onto his side, and I stare at his back.
Our marriage still exists, and that should comfort me. Instead, it makes me feel foolish for wondering whether something else is going on.
A few days later, a courier leaves a large box of architectural material samples in our office by mistake, so I carry it toward the elevator rather than calling upstairs and making someone from Benson Commercial Design retrieve it.
Mark’s office has a bright reception area with samples of wood, tile, glass, fabrics, and little architectural models displayed along the walls.
A young guy I’ve seen in the elevator looks up. “Hey.”
“This ended up at our office,” I explain.
Mark steps out of a conference room. “Is that the Laughton sample box?”
“That depends,” I say. “Is the Laughton sample box good news?”
“Yes.”
“Then this is definitely that.”
Mark closes his eyes. “You’ve saved my life.”
“That seems dramatic.”
“You haven’t met Mr. Laughton.”
“Is he armed?”
“Worse,” he says. “Irrationally opinionated.”
I laugh and set the box on the reception counter, and before I can turn away, one of his employees hurries toward him.
“Mark, I hate to ask, but Ollie’s school thing starts at three, and I know the revisions?—”
Mark frowns at her. “Why are you asking me?”
The employee stops. “I just thought?—”
“I told you yesterday to go.”
“I know, but the Carrington drawings?—”
“Will be there after your son’s school thing is over.”
The woman hesitates, and Mark points toward the elevator. “Nina, he’s only eight once.”
Nina grins. “Thanks.”
“Bring me a cupcake if there are cupcakes.”
“No promises.”
“Then your employment is under review.”
Nina laughs and leaves.
Mark turns and catches me smiling. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You look amused.”
“Apparently you’re terrifying.”
“I’ve cultivated that reputation very carefully.”
Still smiling, I shake my head and return to the elevator.
That evening, Owen is lying on the couch scrolling through his phone when I get home. “Did you get milk?” he asks in place of a greeting.
I stop with my purse still on my shoulder. “No.”
“You said we were out.”
“You were the one who said we were out,” I remind him.
He looks puzzled for a moment, then smiles. “Right. Will you grab some tomorrow?”
The grocery store is on my way home. I know which brand he likes, and picking it up would take less effort than discussing whose responsibility it is. “I probably can.”
“Thanks.” He goes back to his phone.
I stand there for a moment, looking at him, and something shifts in my thinking. Not enough to make me angry, but enough to make me curious.
I wonder if Owen knows Bree likes oat milk because she told him or because he asked. Either way, he remembered.
“I’m going to change,” I say.
“Okay.” He doesn’t look up.
Later, while Owen is showering, I open the notes app on my phone and start typing.
Pay utility bills. Schedule dentist appointments.
Refill Owen’s allergy prescription. Buy his mother’s birthday gift.
Renew car registration. Order furnace filters.
Remember family birthdays. Buy baby shower gifts.
Keep track of homeowners insurance renewal.
Buy groceries. Drop off and pick up dry cleaning.
Make Christmas plans. Keep the plumber’s number on file.
The list of things I handle keeps growing until I’m so embarrassed by it that I delete the whole thing.
I don’t know what I’m trying to prove. I only know that I’ve spent years calling our life easy without noticing how much effort I put into keeping it that way.