Page 9 of Fault Lines
“Not everything is about you and your needs, Livi.”
It was like being shoved under cold water. I got out, knotted a towel around myself. His work shirt lay crumpled on the floor, so I bent to pick it up—and a strange, heady perfume hit me hard, a smell I knew wasn’t mine. I held the shirt close to my nose, breathing it in, heart pounding. The rest of his clothes joined the hamper, my mind racing through a thousand possibilities I didn’t want to think about.
Then I heard his phone buzz from inside his briefcase. The shower was still thundering, so I fished it out.
Lacey. Her name flashed on the screen. The phone was locked, but panic makes you creative. I tried his birthday. Nothing. Two more tries and the phone would lock and he’d know. I tried our anniversary. Still nothing. Last attempt—I put in his banking code.
It opened.
I went straight to the texts. Lacey’s thread was a mile long and after reading the first few, I nearly dropped the phone.
You looked so sexy tonight, I almost did something in front of the clients that would have landed me in front of HR.
My hands shook. I scrolled higher.
Oh my God, Cam that look you gave me in the elevator this morning… let’s just say my panties were soaked.
That’s only fair since your tits in that blouse… I was hard as a rock. I had to take care of myself in the men’s room before I could even make it to my office.
I stopped breathing a little. My husband wasn’t just out of love with me; he was cheating. With her.
Somehow I put his phone away without smashing it. I crawled into my side of the bed, pulled the covers to my chin, and rolled away from his pillows.
It felt like forever before he came to bed. He touched my shoulder, gentle.
“Livi?”
I pretended to be asleep.
I heard him whisper, almost too soft for words: “I’m sorry, sweet girl. I never wanted to hurt you. I’m trying to get ahold of myself, I promise.”
I lay as still and silent as a stone.
Chapter Four
Three weeks had gone by since I’d found the messages, since the secret split itself wide open behind Cam’s phone screen. Three weeks, and I still hadn’t worked up the nerve to face him. Fear kept me paralyzed, like a rabbit staring down the barrel of a gun. If I asked him, if I forced it into daylight, what would he say? Would he admit he loved her and wanted out? Would he just leave?
I didn’t want to imagine life without him; I’d built myself around being his wife. But the hurt was just as sharp as the fear, trapping me between resentment and heartbreak, like a pinball caught bouncing in every direction. Around and around.
Things at home had only gotten worse. Cam was barely there anymore. He started drifting in after I’d fallen asleep or leaving before I was awake, like a ghost haunting the edges of our life. The messages stopped entirely unless I made the first move. He didn’t bother telling me when he wouldn’t be home. Sometimes I would just sit, alone, in the dark, picturing him out somewhere with her. My mind would wander: Cam and Lacey in clubs, Cam and Lacey laughing under golden lights at some intimate restaurant, or catching late movies, or crowded in at a noisy bar. Every scene was borrowed from something he used to do with me. I saw the way he used to laugh, only now it belonged to someone else. I saw him falling onto a bed with her, caught up insheets at some fancy hotel—or maybe just her place, some little apartment where she lived alone.
I kept telling myself I had to confront him. I needed my answer, even if the answer meant choosing her. But the thought of him picking her over me was unbearable, and frankly, likely. Still, I couldn’t keep living like this.
A text lit up my screen:I NEED my bestie!
My gut twisted with guilt. I’d been a terrible friend, avoiding Rachel the same way Cam had been avoiding me. I just hadn’t wanted her to see through me—to see my marriage unraveling—but maybe what I actually needed was help. Someone to talk to.
Come over tonight?
I’ll bring the wine! See you in a few.
Reading that made me smile for the first time in weeks. Maybe it would feel good to let someone in.
It was less than twenty minutes before I heard the knock. I opened the door, and there was Rachel, two bottles of wine held aloft like trophies.
“Geez, Rach, how much do you plan on drinking tonight?” I tried to sound annoyed, but the words came out softer.
“Girl, we gotta make up for lost time! It’s been forever!” She brushed past me, beelining for the kitchen and digging through drawers like she lived here. Which, once upon a time, she almost had.
