Chapter 11
I woke up to the smell of bacon, which was strange enough to make me wonder if I was still dreaming.
Brett hadn't cooked breakfast in our house since about six years ago, when he'd attempted French toast for Mother's Day and somehow managed to burn it while leaving the centers completely raw.
I'd eaten it anyway, making appreciative noises while secretly wondering if food poisoning was an acceptable Mother's Day gift.
But there he was when I padded downstairs in my robe, standing at the stove with an apron tied around his waist like some suburban fantasy of the perfect husband.
He'd even set the dining room table with our good plates, the ones we usually saved for holidays and dinner parties that impressed people we didn't particularly like.
The silverware was arranged, and he'd folded the cloth napkins into those little triangular shapes that restaurants used to make you feel fancy about paying eighty dollars for pasta.
"Morning, beautiful," he said without turning around, his tone determinedly cheerful in a way that immediately put me on alert. "I thought I'd surprise you with breakfast."
I stood in the kitchen doorway watching him flip pancakes.
This was Brett trying to be the husband he thought I wanted, probably motivated by guilt over his romantic weekend in Dallas.
The same guilt that had prompted him to buy my mother expensive perfume and call me from Texas like a devoted spouse missing his family instead of a man who'd been kissing his girlfriend in VIP boxes.
"This is nice," I said, because someone needed to respond to his performance, and silence would make him ask questions I wasn't ready to answer. "What's the occasion?"
"Do I need an occasion to cook for my wife?
" He turned to smile at me, spatula in hand like he was posing for a magazine article about successful men who still made time for romance.
For a moment I saw the man I'd fallen in love with years ago, when he'd surprised me with picnic lunches between classes and stayed up all night helping me study for finals.
Handsome, charming, capable of making me feel like the most important person in the world when he focused his attention on me.
"I realized I've been working too much, taking you for granted.
Thought maybe we could spend some quality time together. "
Quality time. Like we were friends scheduling a playdate instead of married people who'd been living separate lives in the same house for months.
Like forty-five minutes of pancakes could compensate for years of emotional distance and whatever he'd been doing with Alison Crawford while I organized charity fundraisers and pretended our marriage wasn't slowly dying.
I poured myself coffee from the pot, and settled at the kitchen island to watch him arrange food on serving platters.
Everything looked ideal. The pancakes were golden and identical, the bacon was crispy but not burned, and he'd even cut fresh fruit into those little decorative shapes that took forever and served no purpose except proving you had enough time to waste on presentation.
"Smells amazing," I said, meaning it despite everything else.
Whatever else was wrong with Brett, he'd always been good at the grand gestures when he thought they were necessary.
Our first anniversary dinner, cooked entirely from scratch in his tiny apartment kitchen.
The surprise birthday party he'd thrown for my thirtieth, complete with friends I hadn't seen since college and a cake decorated with inside jokes only I would understand.
He knew how to be thoughtful when the mood struck him, which made his recent indifference feel even more pointed.
"I hope you're hungry. I may have gotten a little carried away.
" He gestured toward enough food to feed a small army, his expression pleased with himself in a way that would have been endearing if I didn't know he was probably comparing this domestic scene to whatever breakfast arrangements he'd made with Alison in Dallas.
Room service at the hotel they'd shared, maybe, or some intimate café where they could hold hands across the table without worrying about running into anyone who knew his wife.
Devin appeared in the doorway. His face had that slightly puffy look teenagers got when they'd stayed up too late playing video games and texting girls they were pretending not to have crushes on.
"Whoa," he said, surveying the spread with wide-eyed appreciation of someone who'd been surviving on cafeteria food and whatever he could grab between baseball exercises. "Did someone die? Because this looks like a funeral breakfast, except happier. Like celebration of life breakfast."
"Your father decided to cook for us," I said, accepting the orange juice Brett handed me like we were playing house instead of slowly destroying our family through lies and betrayal that our son knew nothing about.
"Cool." Devin settled at the table and immediately started loading his plate. "Thanks, Dad. This is awesome. What's the catch?"
Brett laughed, but something flickered in his expression that looked like he was calculating how to answer without revealing anything important. "No catch. Can't a man cook breakfast for his family without ulterior motives?"
"You can," Devin said, cutting his pancakes into squares before drowning them in syrup. "You just usually don't. Not that I'm complaining."
We moved to the dining room and settled around the table like a normal family having a normal breakfast.
Brett asked Devin about baseball and college recruitment with attention that had been notably absent for months.
Devin talked about Madison Fletcher like he was trying really hard to act like he didn't care. But it was obvious he had a huge crush on her and was just pretending not to.
"She's just helping me with calculus," he insisted when Brett made some comment about her attending his games. "We're friends. Good friends. Really good friends who sometimes study together and text about homework and stuff."
"Right," Brett said, grinning at his son. "That's exactly how your mother and I started. She was just helping me with American Literature, and I was just helping her understand why anyone should care about pharmaceutical marketing strategies."
"We were never that obvious," I said, though we absolutely had been. Six months of study sessions that gradually became dinner dates that turned into spending every free moment together. "And I still don't understand pharmaceutical marketing strategies."
"Which is why you're smart enough to focus on things that actually matter," Brett said, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand with what looked like spontaneous affection. "Like raising incredible kids and organizing events that change people's lives."
The compliment caught me off guard, mainly because Brett hadn't said anything positive about my charitable work in years. Usually, he tolerated my volunteer commitments with polite indulgence, treating them like harmless but pointless hobbies.
"Oh, I almost forgot," I said, extracting my hand from his before the contact could feel too comfortable.
"I have to go. The literacy fundraising brunch is happening this morning at the country club. The one we’ve been planning for months, calling every person we know and begging them to care about children's education. "
Brett's fork paused halfway to his mouth, and I caught a micro-expression that looked like panic before his face smoothed back into supportive husband mode. "Right. The fundraiser. How could I forget?"
Easily, apparently, since he'd forgotten every other event I'd organized for the past two years.
Parent-teacher conferences, charity galas, dinner parties for his colleagues' wives who expected social reciprocation.
Brett had mastered the art of nodding along when I mentioned upcoming obligations while clearly not retaining any information about dates or details.
"You mentioned it might be nice if you stopped by," I continued, watching his face for any sign of real interest versus polite obligation. "Nothing formal, just show support for the cause. Maybe write a check that makes us look appropriately generous to people who track these things."
"I'd love to," he said, though something flickered in his expression that looked like he was mentally calculating how to be in two places at once. "I've got golf with the guys this morning, but maybe I can swing by afterward. Support literacy and all that. Education is important."
Support literacy. Like he'd never heard of the organization I'd been volunteering with for years, attending board meetings and coordinating events, and writing thank-you notes to donors who thought contributing to children's reading programs made them better people.
Like literacy was some abstract concept instead of the cause I'd chosen because reading had saved my sanity during the loneliest periods of our marriage.
"That would be wonderful," I said, meaning the opposite. The last thing I needed was Brett showing up at the fundraiser, playing the devoted husband role while I tried to focus on anything other than the fact that my marriage was ending in real time and everyone I knew would find out eventually.
"I've been thinking about Christmas vacation. We should plan something special this year. Make up for all the family time I've missed because of work. Maybe see the northern lights? Iceland or Norway, somewhere we've never been together."
Devin's face lit up with real excitement that made my heart ache for reasons I couldn't explain without destroying his happiness. "Seriously? That would be incredible. I've always wanted to see the aurora borealis. Jake went with his family last year and said it was like watching the sky dance."