Page 4 of After Everything
My hands weren't shaking anymore. That surprised me. I sat on the couch in the dark, phone in my lap, and my hands were perfectly still.
Inside, though, I was falling apart.
My heart was racing so fast I felt lightheaded. My thoughts kept fragmenting,flashing between the photos on his phone, the lingerie charge, the timestamp that said 7:42 AM, the look on his face when he'd kissed me goodbye last Saturday. I couldn't hold onto any single thought long enough to make sense of it. Everything just kept splintering and reforming and splintering again.
But outwardly, I was calm. Years of ICU nursing had taught me that. You can be terrified and exhausted and heartbroken, and your hands will still do what they need to do. Your face will stay neutral. Your voice will stay steady.
The engine cut off. Car door opened, then closed. His footsteps on the walkway.
I took a breath. Held it. Let it out slowly.
The key slid into the lock.
The door opened. Light from the hallway spilled into the dark living room. David's silhouette filled the doorway: briefcase in one hand, phone in the other, shoulders slumped with exhaustion that I might have felt sorry for if I didn't know where he'd actually been all night.
He stepped inside and fumbled for the light switch.
"Emma? You still up?"
His voice was warm. Concerned, even. Like he gave a shit whether I was awake or asleep or dead on the kitchen floor.
The light came on.
He saw me first, sitting on the couch, phone in my lap. Staring at him.
For a second, I just looked at him. Really looked at him. David. My husband. The man I'd fallen in love with in college, who used to bring me coffee during all-nighters, who'd held my hand when I got my med school acceptance letter and cried with me when I turned it down. Still handsome at thirty-two, in that polished lawyer way. Sharp jawline, dark hair he kept just long enough to run his fingers through.
He looked exhausted. Tie loosened, shirt wrinkled, the kind of worn-down that came from a long day at the office.
Except he hadn't been at the office.
I thought about Sarah in those photos. The way she'd looked at the camera. The way she'd posed for him, knowing he'd belooking at them later. I wondered if he touched her face the same way he used to touch mine. If he kissed her the same way. If she got the version of him I'd fallen in love with, or if that man had disappeared years ago and I'd just been too blind to notice.
David's face shifted. Confusion, maybe. Or the first hint of wariness.
Then his eyes tracked to the suitcase by the door.
He froze.
"What…" He looked back at me, then at the suitcase again. "Emma, what's going on?"
I didn't say anything. Just watched him. Watched the gears turning behind his eyes as he tried to figure out what this meant, how much trouble he was in, what story he could tell to make this okay.
"Babe, what is this?" He set down his briefcase, took a step toward me. His foot stopped just short of the wine stain on the carpet. Dark red, already set into the fibers. I'd cleaned up the glass, but the stain was still there.
He looked at it. Looked at me.
Something in his expression changed.The concern flickered. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.
"Sit down, David."
My voice came out calmer than I expected. Flat. Clinical. The same tone I used when I had to tell a family member their loved one wasn't going to make it.
He sat. Slowly. On the edge of the armchair across from me, hands on his knees, like he was ready to bolt at any second.
"Emma—"
"All I want from you tonight is the truth." I kept my eyes on his. "That's it. Just the truth. Can you do that?"
