Chapter 5

I didn't charge into the bathroom to confront Julian.

I didn't smash his phone, nor did I cry and ask him why.

I simply took a screenshot of the text, then placed my phone face down on the bed.

When the bathroom door opened, Julian walked out with a towel wrapped around his waist, water dripping from his wet hair down his neck.

He glanced at me, his expression natural, almost tender.

"Are you showering first, or should I run the water for you?"

I stared at him, momentarily rendered speechless.

This man had just told another woman that he missed her.

Yet right now, he stood in our bedroom, asking if I wanted a shower, as if this were still just another ordinary evening.

"What's wrong?" He touched his own face. "Is there something on my face?"

"No."

My voice didn't sound like my own.

Julian picked up his pajamas, leaning down to kiss my forehead once more.

It was a gesture he did every night before going to sleep. I used to view it as affection, but as his lips touched me now, a cold chill ran across my skin.

"What do you want to eat tomorrow night?" he asked. "I can come home early."

Tomorrow afternoon at our usual place.

I miss you.

Those words lit up inside my head all over again.

He wasn't planning on coming home early. He just needed to see another woman first before coming back to have dinner with his wife.

"Whatever," I said.

Julian seemed to finally pick up on my odd demeanor. "Are you still thinking about that scar Ivy mentioned?"

"Would you prefer if I didn't think about it?"

He sighed, turning around to open the closet. "I already explained it. Everyone was having a good time today, there's no need to cling to a drunk comment."

"Did you two really only go swimming together?"

His movement paused for a split second.

Only a split second.

"Yes."

The word came out so easily.

I used to think that lying made people feel guilty, caused their voices to tremble, and made them afraid to look the other person in the eye.

Julian did none of those things. He even walked over to take my hand, his thumb gently rubbing against my knuckles.

"Maren, I love you," he said. "But you have to learn to trust me."

I looked down at our joined hands.

Five years ago, he held my hand just like this as we exchanged rings.

On that day, he promised to be faithful, promised to be honest, and promised to give me security whenever I felt uneasy.

Now, he held me with that exact same hand, demanding that I believe his lies.

"Okay," I heard myself answer.

Julian visibly let out a sigh of relief.

He thought he had won back my trust, completely unaware that he had just destroyed it with his own hands.

That night, he fell asleep quickly. I lay with my back turned to him, my eyes wide open, retracing everything that had happened over the past three months.

Those sudden, frequent cooking classes; those phones placed face down; those messages paired with gentle smiles; and how he repeatedly told me that I was being too sensitive, too paranoid, always jumping to the worst conclusions.

My instincts had never been wrong.

He had simply denied reality over and over again until I began lying to myself on his behalf.

At two in the morning, Julian rolled over, his arm habitually resting across my waist.

I lay there stiffly, smelling the familiar scent of body wash on him.

The same bed, the same bedroom, the same man.

Yet our marriage was no longer here.

I gently moved his arm away, got out of bed, and walked into the kitchen.

The leftover meat sauce from that night was still in the fridge, a layer of dark red oil congealed on top.

I dumped the entire container straight into the trash bin.

Then, standing before the sink, I sent a message to a friend.

"Is anyone staying in that empty apartment of yours these days?"

After sending it, I didn't feel an immediate sense of relief.

I was simply glad that I had finally stopped waiting for Julian to tell me the truth.