I should have confronted her then, should have demanded the truth. Instead, I'd chosen to believe her lies because the alternative was admitting that everything I'd built was crumbling. But last night had changed everything. The mask was off. I drove to the boxing gym where I'd trained in my 20s before Monica convinced me that fighting was beneath someone with my intelligence.
Mick's gym hadn't changed much. Still smelled like sweat, leather, and broken dreams. The old man himself was working the heavy bag. His movement still sharp despite being north of 70. "Well, I'll be damned," Mick said, wiping sweat from his forehead with a towel.
"Jack Morrison. Thought you were too fancy for us workingclass types these days." "Never too fancy for you, Mick." He studied my face with the eyes of someone who'd seen a lot of fighters both in the ring and out. "Trouble at home?" I told him about Monica's fantasy dinner, about Trent, about the slow dissolution of my marriage. Mick listened without judgment, occasionally nodding or grunting and understanding. Women like that, he said when I finished, they don't respect weakness.
You've been playing defense for years, letting her call the shots. Time to go on offense. I threatened Trent with a crowbar. Pretty sure that counts as offense. Mick laughed.
That was just a warning shot. Real fighting happens up here. He tapped his temple. You're smarter than both of them combined. Use that.
I spent an hour working the heavy bag, my muscles remembering the rhythm, even after all these years. Each punch was Monica's smug smile. Each combination was Trent's entitled grin. By the time I finished, my knuckles were raw, but my head was clear. When I got home, Monica was getting ready for some work function.
She'd laid out a black dress on our bed, new, expensive, and cut to show off assets I'd apparently stopped appreciating. I'll be late tonight, she said, applying lipstick in the bathroom mirror. Office party? Will Trent be there? Her hand paused for just a second.
Probably. He works at the firm, Jack. Right. Silly me. She turned to face me, her green eyes flashing with irritation.
Are you going to be weird about this? Because I won't tolerate jealousy and paranoia. Wouldn't dream of it, I said. Have fun. After she left, I did something I'd never done before.
I went through her things, not proud of it, but desperate times and all that. In her nightstand drawer, under a stack of legal briefs, I found a receipt from the Marriott downtown. Room service for two champagne strawberries. The date was last Tuesday when she'd supposedly been working late on the Henderson case. My hands shook as I photographed the receipt with my phone.
18 years of marriage and it had come to this. Gathering evidence like I was investigating an insurance fraud, but the real smoking tool was in her laptop bag. She'd forgotten to close her email. And there it was. Months of correspondence with Trent.
Not just work emails, but personal messages that made my stomach turn. Can't wait to feel you inside me again, read one from last week. Jack suspects nothing. He's too busy playing handyman, read another. The worst part wasn't the explicit details of their affair.
It was how they talked about me like I was a joke. A pathetic husband too stupid to see what was happening under his own roof. I printed everything. Every email, every text message thread I could access. Every receipt and credit card statement that told the story of my wife's double life.
The evidence filled a manila folder that I locked in my toolbox in the garage. Monica came home at 2:00 in the morning wreaking of wine and cologne that wasn't mine. She slipped into bed thinking I was asleep. "How was the party?" I asked quietly. She stiffened.
"Fine, boring, actually." "Trent there?" "I don't remember. I was networking with potential clients." I rolled over to face her in the dark. "Monica, do you love me?" The question seemed to surprise her. She was quiet for a long moment. "That's a complicated question, Jack." "No, it's not.
It's the simplest question in the world." Another long pause. Then I love the life we've built. I love our family. That's not what I asked. She turned away from me.
I'm tired, Jack. Can we talk about this tomorrow? But I already had my answer, and tomorrow I was going to start doing something about it. Monica's work party was the following Friday at some upscale restaurant downtown. She'd made it clear I wasn't invited.
It's really more of a networking thing, honey. But Mick had other ideas. You're going," he said during our training session that afternoon. "Time to see what you're really dealing with." She doesn't want me there. Since when do you need permission to attend your wife's work events?
He had a point. In the early years of our marriage, I'd been Monica's plus one to every firm function. Somewhere along the way, I'd become an embarrassment. She preferred to hide. I showered, put on my best suit, the navy one Monica had picked out for her law school graduation, and drove downtown.
The restaurant was one of those places where the portions are tiny and the prices are astronomical. Through the window, I could see Monica holding court near the bar, laughing at something Trent was whispering in her ear. The hostess tried to stop me, but I brushed past her. I'm with the Morrison and Associates party. Monica's face went white when she saw me.
Trent, on the other hand, looked like he might bolt for the emergency exit. Jack, Monica said, her voice tight with forced cheer. What a surprise. Thought I'd surprise my wife, I said loudly enough for nearby conversations to pause. Hope you don't mind me crashing the party.
Several of Monica's colleagues turned to watch. I recognized most of them from previous functions back when I was still considered worthy of inclusion. Of course not, Monica said through gritted teeth. How thoughtful. I walked to the bar and ordered a whiskey.
Neat. The bartender was a young guy with sleeve tattoos and the kind of smirk that said he'd seen plenty of domestic drama play out over his bar. Make it a double, I added. Monica appeared at my elbow. What are you doing here, Jack?
Supporting my wife's career? Isn't that what good husbands do? You're embarrassing yourself. Am I or am I embarrassing you? Before she could answer, Trent materialized on my other side.
Up close, he was even prettier than I'd remembered. Perfect teeth, perfect hair, probably perfect abs under that tailored shirt. Hey, Jack," he said, extending his hand like we were old friends. "Glad you could make it." I looked at his hand, but didn't take it. "Trent, still breathing, I see." His smile faltered.
Monica stepped between us. "Why don't you get some food, honey?" she suggested. "The shrimp is supposed to be excellent." "I'm not hungry for shrimp," I said, my eyes never leaving Trent's face. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. Other party guests were starting to stare openly now.
Monica's boss, a silver-haired shark named Patterson, was watching from across the room with obvious interest. That's when inspiration struck. I picked up my drink and pretended to stumble. Accidentally, dumping the entire contents down the front of Trent's pristine white shirt and expensive suit jacket. "Oh crap," I said loudly.