Chapter 1

A woman was wearing my pajamas.

It was that light blue cotton set, the one with a tiny daisy embroidered right at the collar.

I bought it for myself as a birthday present last year.

She was propped up against my doorframe, her hair all loose, with that just-woke-up vibe on her face.

She paused for a moment when she saw me. It wasn't the kind of panic look if someone got caught red-handed.

She looked more irritated, like she was silently asking, 'What are you doing here?'

I was still holding the steak I'd just picked up from the supermarket.

Patrick's voice called out from the living room. "Who's there?"

He walked over to the door and saw me.

His face went through three different expressions.

Finally, he said, "Go stay somewhere else for a few days. Don't make a scene."

*****

The steak dropped to the floor.

The plastic bag tore open, and some bloody juice leaked out, soaking into the doormat by the door.

I picked out that doormat at IKEA. It was gray, with a non-slip bottom.

I remember it clearly. When I brought it home, Patrick complained it was way too expensive, eighty bucks just for a doormat.

I told him, "With people coming and going all the time, it's worth getting something sturdy."

Now, that doormat was stained with the bloody juice from the steak.

The woman was standing just behind the doormat, wearing my pajamas.

"Patrick, um, this is...?" Her voice was syrupy sweet.

Patrick didn't even bother to look at me.

He shot her a gentle glance. "Go back inside. I'll deal with this."

He actually said, "Deal with it," like I was just some mess he needed to clean up.

She turned and headed for the bedroom, her slippers slapping against the floor as she passed me.

Those were my slippers, too. Pink ones, with a hole in the sole of the right foot. I kept telling myself I'd toss them, but never did.

She walked straight into my bedroom, still wearing my slippers.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Patrick turned back to face me.

"Why are you home today? Didn't you say you'd be working late?" he said.

He didn't try to explain himself. He didn't ask me to listen. He just asked, "Why are you home today?"

It was as if I needed a reason to walk into my own house.

"Who is she?" I heard myself ask, my voice flat.

"Just drop it," Patrick said.

"Patrick." My voice was cold.

"I told you, stay out of it," he said, his tone sharper now.

Then he said it again, "Go stay somewhere else for a few days. Don't make a scene."

I looked right at him. He wasn't even fazed. He didn't even look guilty. He was dead serious. He really believed I should get out.

This was my home.

I paid the down payment. Every month, the mortgage comes straight out of my paycheck. I picked out the sofa in the living room. I bought every pot and pan in the kitchen. I even climbed up a ladder and hung up the bedroom curtains myself.

Now, he let some random woman wearing my pajamas, slipping on my slippers, and sleeping in my bed.

And then he told me to leave.

I bent down and picked up the steak from the floor. The plastic bag was already torn, so I cupped them in my hands, blood dripping down my fingers.

"Fine," I said.

I turned and walked away.

As I reached the stairs, I heard the door close behind me.

Then I heard the lock click. He locked the door. He was afraid I'd try to come back in.

I stood in the stairwell, frozen.

My hands were slick with the bloody juice from the steak.

The elevator doors opened, and Nora Kennedy from next door stepped out, eyeing me.

"Maisey, what are you carrying? It's dripping all over the floor," she said.

I looked down. A line of bloody drips stretched from my front door all the way to where I was standing.

I replied, "It's nothing. Just some steak."

I walked into the elevator and pressed the button for the basement.

As the doors closed, I saw my face reflected in the shiny elevator doors.

I was cradling the ripped bag of steak in my hands. My hair was a bit tousled. My face showed no emotion at all.

At the basement garage, I got into my car.

I set the steak down on the passenger seat. The blood soaked into the car seat.

I started the engine, but I didn't drive off. I just sat there.

My phone lit up. It was a message from Patrick.

He said: [Don't come back for a few days. Wait until I say so.]

I stared at that message for a long time. Then I turned my phone face down.

The engine was still running. The white lights in the garage left nothing hidden. Everything was laid bare.

I drove over to Lucy Johnson's place.

When she opened the door, her eyes went to my face first, then to the blood on my hands.

"Maisey?" she asked.

"I dropped the steak," I said.

She pulled me inside and told me to wash up first.

I sat on her couch, and she handed me a glass of water. I didn't drink it.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

I handed her my phone.

She read Patrick's message.

She exclaimed, "Wait, what? He's telling you not to come home?"

I replied, "There's a woman in my house. Wearing my pajamas."

Lucy set the glass down on the coffee table with a soft clink.

Then she just sat there, silent. She waited for about ten seconds before asking, "You didn't ask him?"

I replied, "Yeah, I asked. He just told me to mind my own business."

"Fuck that guy!" Lucy cursed, then pulled me into a hug.

I didn't cry. I couldn't stop thinking about one thing.

After eight years of marriage, the down payment for that house, 130 thousand dollars, was a mix of my parents' money and three years of my own hard-earned savings.