My fingers went numb.
The woman murmured something back. Julian laughed.
“Of course I hate her. I barely touch her anymore. Just wait. I’ll divorce her, and then I’ll marry you.”
A kiss sounded through the speaker.
I couldn’t move. With my free hand, I quietly ended the call.
That evening, Julian walked in with grocery-store flowers and kissed my forehead. “Missed my girls,” he said, smiling like he hadn’t torn my entire life apart six hours earlier.
I smiled back. “We missed you too.”
For six days after that, I said nothing. I watched him take his phone into the shower. Change his passcode. Spray on cologne before every “late shift.” And while he did all of it, thinking he was untouchable, I was quietly preparing our second anniversary dinner.
I’d originally planned something small — just the three of us. At the last minute, I changed my mind. On Sunday, I invited both of our families over. Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie — a warm, ordinary American dinner.
When the plates were cleared, I stood up with my water glass.
