The next few weeks were torture. Andrew's notebook became a constant presence. I'd catch him writing in it at odd hours, documenting things I couldn't see. He'd ask casual questions about my day, my plans, my whereabouts, and I could feel him cataloging every answer. At work, the whispers had gotten worse.
Janet made pointed comments about my book club adventures, and I could see other co-workers exchanging glances when they thought I wasn't looking. You seem stressed lately, my supervisor, Carol, mentioned during our weekly check-in. Everything okay at home? Everything's fine, I lied. The same lie I'd been telling everyone.
Just tired. But everything wasn't fine. Laya had started having nightmares, crawling into our bed in the middle of the night, sensing the tension, even if she couldn't understand it. Andrew would comfort her, but he barely spoke to me anymore. I'd tried texting Jace a few times, desperate for someone to talk to, someone who might understand, but his responses were short, distant.
Can't talk now. Busy with work. Finally, nothing at all. The only person who seemed to believe me was my sister, Marina. At 29, she was 5 years younger than me and had always looked up to me as the responsible older sister who had her life together.
Andrew's being ridiculous, she said when I called her crying one evening. "So, what if you went out and had some fun? You're not his property. " He thinks I'm cheating, I whispered into the phone, hiding in our bedroom closet so Andrew wouldn't overhear. Are you? The question hung in the air.
I wanted to say no. Wanted to maintain the lie even with my own sister. But I was drowning in deception. It was one night I admitted one stupid night. I was drunk and lonely and it didn't mean anything.
Then it's not cheating, Marina said firmly. It was a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes. I don't think Andrew sees it that way. Andrew needs to get over himself.
You're a grown woman with needs. If he's not meeting them, that's his fault, not yours. Her words were like a lifeline. Maybe she was right. Maybe I wasn't the villain in this story.
Maybe Andrew was being unreasonable, controlling, paranoid. But then I'd see him with Laya, patient and loving despite everything falling apart around us, and the guilt would crash over me again. Thursday evening, I came home to find Andrew in his study, surrounded by papers, bank statements, phone bills, credit card records. Our entire financial life spread across his desk. "What are you doing? " I asked from the doorway.
"Balancing the books," he said without looking up. Interesting charges here. Uber rides to parts of town you never go to. Bar tabs at places you've never mentioned. ATM withdrawals near that club downtown.
What's it called? Pulse. My mouth went dry. I don't know what you're talking about. Don't you?
He finally looked up and I saw that he'd been crying. The sight of tears on my strong, steady husband's face nearly broke me. Because according to this, you were at Pulse the night of your book club. And according to your phone's GPS history, you went from there to an apartment building across town. Stayed there until 5:30 in the morning.
You went through my phone. You left it on the counter. It was buzzing. I was going to bring it to you, but then I saw the notifications. Messages from someone named Jace.
Very friendly messages. I felt the walls closing in. Andrew, I can explain. Can you? Because I'd love to hear the explanation for last night was amazing.
Can't wait to do it again. The message I'd sent to Jace the morning after. The message he'd never responded to. It's not what it looks like. What does it look like, Cresa?
I opened my mouth, but no words came. What could I say? How could I explain the unexplainable? Justify the unjustifiable. I made a mistake, I whispered finally.
A mistake, he laughed, but there was no humor in it. A mistake is forgetting to pick up milk. A mistake is being late for dinner. This This is a choice, a series of choices. I was lonely, I said, the words tumbling out.
You're always working, always distracted. When was the last time you really looked at me? Really saw me? So, this is my fault? No.
Yes. I don't know. I was crying now. Ugly sobs that shook my whole body. I felt invisible, like I didn't matter to anyone.
You matter to Yayla. The simple statement hit harder than any accusation. He was right. Whatever problems Andrew and I had, whatever loneliness I felt, Laya didn't deserve this. I know, I whispered.
I know I messed up. But it was one night, one stupid night. Can't we move past this? Andrew stared at me for a long moment, then slowly closed the notebook he'd been writing in. "I don't know," he said finally.
"I honestly don't know if we can. " That weekend, Eleanor called to invite us to Sunday dinner again. I begged Andrew to decline, but he insisted we go. "Running away won't solve anything," he said, and Laya needs normaly. But there was nothing normal about the way Eleanor looked at me when we arrived or the way Simon couldn't meet my eyes. They knew somehow they knew everything.
"How's work going, Cresa? " Eleanor asked as we sat down to eat. "Fine," I replied shortly. "And book club still meeting regularly? " "Elanar," Andrew warned. "I'm just making conversation," she said innocently. Though I did hear the most interesting thing from Margaret Henderson.
She said someone called the library asking about you. Wanted to know if you were really a member of their book club. My fork clattered to my plate. Who would do that? Eleanor's smile was razor sharp.
Someone who cares about the truth, I'd imagine. After dinner, while Simon was showing Laya his garden, Elellanena cornered me in the kitchen. I know what you did, she said quietly. I don't know what you mean. Yes, you do.
And if you think I'm going to stand by and watch you destroy my son, you're mistaken. This is between Andrew and me. No, it's not. Not when it affects my granddaughter. Not when it affects my family.
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. Fix this, Cresider. Fix it or I will. Is that a threat? It's a promise.
That night, as we drove home, Andrew was quieter than usual. Laya had fallen asleep in her car seat, exhausted from playing in her grandparents' garden. She asked me if we were getting divorced, Andrew said suddenly. Who, Laya? While you were inside with mom.
She wanted to know if she'd have to choose who to live with. The words hit me like physical blows. What did you tell her? I told her that mommy and daddy were working through some problems, but that we both love her very much. And and that sometimes adults make choices that hurt the people they love, even when they don't mean to.
I stared out the window at the passing street lights, each one marking another moment of my daughter's innocence lost. Another piece of my marriage crumbling. I never meant for any of this to happen, I whispered. I know, Andrew said, but it did happen. And now we have to figure out what comes next.
When we got home, he carried Laya upstairs while I sat in our dark living room, surrounded by the remnants of the life I'd destroyed with one night of selfish choices. I could hear Andrew moving around upstairs, the familiar sounds of our bedtime routine. But when he came back down, instead of joining me, he went into his study and closed the door. Through the thin walls, I could hear him making phone calls. Quiet, serious conversations that lasted well into the night.
I had a terrible feeling that whatever came next, I wasn't going to like it. Monday morning started like any other, except for the knot of dread that had taken up permanent residence in my stomach. Andrew had been gone when I woke up, leaving only a note saying he'd taken Laya to school and would be working late. At the office, I tried to focus on my administrative tasks, but concentration was impossible. Every time someone walked past my desk, I looked up, expecting, "What? " I didn't even know anymore.