5. The Second Betrayal
Chapter Five
THE SECOND BETRAYAL
Owen is waiting with flowers. A dozen dark red roses arranged in paper with a ribbon around the stems. They look like they came from an actual florist. He stands in the kitchen holding them like a man in an apology commercial.
“I’m sorry.”
I set my purse down. “I know.”
“No, I mean it.”
“So do I.”
He follows me into the kitchen. “I’ve been an idiot.”
“Yes.”
“I liked the attention. Bree flirted, and I liked feeling … I don’t know. Wanted. Younger.”
“That’s a cliché.”
“I know.”
“Did you tell her our marriage was bad?”
His eyes shift.
“Owen.”
“I said things were stale.”
“Were they?”
“No.”
“Then why tell her that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because it made cheating easier?”
“I didn’t cheat,” he says. I stare at him, and he shuts his eyes. “I mean, I kissed her. I know that’s cheating. I meant we didn’t have sex.”
I hate that the clarification gives me relief.
We stand in the kitchen and talk until my head aches. He promises to switch delivery routes if he can, block Bree’s number, go to counseling, give me access to his phone, and do anything else I ask. I listen because, against all my anger, I still see eleven years.
I see our first apartment, where mice lived behind the oven, and Owen set live traps while I stood on a chair. I remember us painting our current living room twice because the first beige looked green at night. I remember our first date, our honeymoon, our first anniversary.
One kiss doesn’t erase all of that. At least I don’t think it does.
“What happens the next time a pretty woman flirts with you?” I ask.
His mouth twists. “I deserve that.”
“I haven’t forgiven you,” I say eventually.
“I know.”
“If you’ve told me everything, I’m willing to talk to a counselor before I decide what happens.”
“You will?” His entire face fills with relief and hope, so much so that I almost feel cruel for not smiling back.
“I’ll talk to someone,” I say. “That isn’t the same thing as saying we’re okay.”
“I know.”
“This is your chance, Owen. If there’s anything else, tell me now.”
“There isn’t.”
“You won’t get another chance.”
“I’m telling you the truth.” He reaches for my hand, and after a moment, I let him take it. “You’re the only woman I want.”
Three days later, flowers arrive at work, then chocolates, and on Monday afternoon Owen comes into the office carrying a coffee. Not even looking in Bree’s direction, he walks directly to my desk and sets the cup down.
I can smell it even before I read the label. “You bought me pumpkin spice?”
His hopeful smile falters. “You were upset I didn’t bring you one.”
“I don’t like pumpkin spice.”
“I thought—” He blinks.
“I didn’t want someone else’s latte. I wanted you to remember what I like.”
“I’m trying, Mel.”
“I know.”
After he leaves, Bree approaches my desk. “Can we talk?”
“No.” She tried to talk to me a couple of days ago, and I told her no then, too.
“Please.”
I stop typing.
She lowers her voice. “I’m sorry.”
“For what exactly?”
“For everything.”
“Be specific.”
Her cheeks color. “The flirting. The kiss.”
“Did Owen tell you we were separated?”
“No.”
“Did he say we were divorcing?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you we weren’t sleeping together?”
“He said you were basically roommates.”
“But you knew we were married,” I say.
Her mouth tightens. “Obviously.” She folds her arms defensively. “I never asked him to leave you.”
I stop breathing for a second, then search her face. “What?”
“I said I never asked him to leave.”
“Why would you? Because of a kiss?”
Her face drains, and the silence that follows is telling.
That evening, I log into our joint credit card account.
At first, the charges I find are small enough to explain away. Coffee shops, restaurants, bars, festival tickets. Then I scroll farther.
ACES MOTOR INN — $138.40
My fingers go cold, but I keep searching and find another charge from the same motel three months earlier and a jewelry store purchase for two hundred thirty-nine dollars.
Later, using Connie’s login, I find a photo of Bree from May wearing a delicate gold necklace with a crescent moon pendant.
When Owen comes home, I don’t confront him. He’s affectionate and hopeful, making pasta while talking about counselors he found online. He tells me he’ll call one tomorrow if I want.
“Maybe,” I say.
His shoulders relax. “You’re the only woman I want.”
The sentence sounds different now. Wanting me didn’t stop him from wanting access to someone else.
After dinner, Owen takes a shower and leaves his company phone sitting on his dresser. I’ve never looked at it because there has never been a reason. Now there is.
There’s no passcode, and that makes me think I won’t find anything, but then I open his messages and see Bree’s name immediately.
At first, I scroll so quickly that the words blur, but then my brain begins catching individual phrases. Hotel rooms. Lunch dates. Photos. Messages sent late at night while I slept beside him.
Can’t stop thinking about last night.
She thinks I’m on an extra route.
Wear the black one.
My hands begin to shake. Their thread goes back nearly a year. The affair started shortly after Bree began working at my office.
Not one kiss. Not a couple months of flirting.
A year.
Almost an entire year of my husband walking into my workplace and seeing the woman he was sleeping with while his wife sat nearby.
I scroll back up to the recent messages. After the hallway, after Owen looked directly into my eyes and swore he was telling the truth, he texted Bree.
She knows we kissed. Keep quiet.
Bree replied almost immediately: That’s all you told her?
Owen: Yes. I’m trying to fix things at home. Give me space for a while.
Bree: So what happens to me?
Owen: Not now. Please.
I read the exchange twice, then a third time.
If it had truly been one kiss, I would have tried counseling.
I don’t know whether I could have forgiven it, but I would have tried.
If Owen had told me everything in that hallway, maybe I would still have decided to leave him, but at least he would have given me the dignity of making that decision with the truth in front of me.
Instead, he watched me break apart, accepted my offer to try to save our marriage, and then texted his girlfriend instructions for maintaining the lie.
He isn’t remorseful because he lied. He’s remorseful because he got caught.
The shower shuts off, and I photograph the messages with my phone and put his phone back exactly where I found it.
When Owen comes back wearing sweatpants and rubbing a towel over his damp hair, he looks at me with concern. “You okay?”
I look at the man I’ve loved for over a decade. “Fine.”
He bends and kisses my forehead. “I love you.”
I nearly laugh. Instead, I smile faintly. “I know.”
That night, he sleeps beside me while I stare at the ceiling.
I’m not going to counseling. I’m going to a lawyer.