Chapter 2
The dining room chandelier cast warm amber light across our oak table, illuminating the family vacation photos that lined the walls—a facade of domestic bliss that now felt like mockery.
I arranged the roasted salmon on Tom's favorite ceramic plates, my hands moving with practiced precision while my mind spiraled.
Playing the perfect wife had become muscle memory, even when my world was crumbling.
Tom's footsteps echoed down the hallway. He'd been in the shower for twenty minutes—longer than usual. And was he... humming?
When had my husband last hummed in the shower?
He appeared in the doorway, hair still damp, wearing that satisfied glow that used to make my heart skip.
Now it made my stomach churn.
"Smells amazing, babe." He settled into his chair, checking his phone immediately.
Always the fucking phone.
"How was the Peterson deal?" I kept my voice casual, cutting into my salmon. "You seemed to wrap it up faster than expected."
Tom paused, fork halfway to his mouth. Just for a split second. But I caught it.
He replied, "Oh yeah, turns out it was simpler than I thought. Just needed to... uh, review some zoning documents."
Zoning documents. Right. The same zoning documents that required him to emerge from Amy's car looking thoroughly satisfied.
I continued, "That's great. I'm glad you could make time for what's important."
The double meaning hung in the air between us.
"And then Coach Amy showed us this new footwork drill!" Sophia bounced in her chair, eyes sparkling with the kind of excitement she used to reserve for Christmas morning. "She said European players use it all the time!"
I forced myself to smile at my daughter's enthusiasm, even as each word felt like a small blade twisting deeper.
I responded, "She sounds like a very... dedicated coach."
"Oh, she is! And daddy knows all about it too!" Sophia continued, oblivious to the sudden tension crackling across the table. "Coach Amy said daddy knows a lot about soccer strategy! She told me he gave her some really good ideas."
Tom and I both froze, our eyes meeting across the table for one electric moment. His face went pale beneath his weekend tan.
"Oh?" I kept my voice carefully controlled, like I was walking across ice that might crack at any moment. "When did daddy talk to Coach Amy about strategy?"
"I just mentioned a few things when I picked you up that one time," Tom interrupted quickly, his voice pitched slightly higher than normal. "No big deal."
One time. Right. Because dedicated soccer dads definitely emerge from coaches' cars after one casual conversation about strategy.
Sophia beamed, completely unaware she'd just detonated a bomb in the middle of our dining room. "She said he has really good insights about positioning!"
10:00 PM. The master bedroom felt smaller than usual, the walls pressing in as I removed my makeup in the ensuite bathroom.
Through the mirror, I could see Tom propped against the headboard, phone in hand, supposedly "handling emails."
But that voice...
Soft. Tender. The way he used to talk to me when we were dating, when every word felt like a promise.
"...can't wait to see you again. Today was perfect..."
My hand stilled on the makeup wipe. In sixteen years of marriage, Tom had never sounded that gentle talking to clients. That intimate.
Through the crack in the bathroom door, I watched him smile at his phone screen—a private, secretive smile that made him look like a teenager in love.
When was the last time he'd smiled at me like that?
I opened the bathroom door, and he startled like I'd fired a gunshot.
I asked, "Working late again?"
Tom's thumb moved frantically across his screen, hiding whatever he'd been typing. "Just... just confirming Monday's client meeting. You know how it is."
Sunday morning, 7:00 AM. The garage smelled like motor oil and Tom's expensive cologne.
I fumbled with the handle of his Tesla, my excuse about forgotten sunglasses feeling flimsy even to myself.
The morning light streaming through the high windows illuminated the pristine interior. Tom kept his car immaculate—no coffee cups, no papers, no evidence of a life lived messily.
Except...
My fingers found it under the passenger seat. Small, pink, definitely not mine.
An Apple Watch Sport band. The kind young, athletic women wore to track their runs, their heartbeats, their lives.
I lifted it to the light, and my world tilted sideways.
Engraved on the clasp: "A.R." with a tiny heart symbol.
Amy Richardson.
Not just any watch band. A gift. An intimate, personal gift that someone had worn against their skin, close to their pulse.
"Jen? You find your sunglasses?" Tom's voice from the house made me jump.
I shoved the watch band into my pocket, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I replied, "Yes! Found them! Be right there!"
But as I walked back toward the house, the pink band burned in my pocket like evidence of my own stupidity. How had I missed this? How had I been so goddamn naive?
8:00 AM. The kitchen island had become my stage for the performance of a lifetime.
I flipped pancakes with mechanical precision while Tom read the Sunday paper and Sophia sketched in her art pad.
Normal family Sunday. Perfect wife, devoted father, innocent child.
Except my hands wouldn't stop shaking, and I nearly dropped the coffee pot twice.
"Beautiful day." Tom glanced up from the business section. "How about we drive to Fairfield Beach? Family time."
Family time. Now he wanted family time.
I gripped my coffee mug so hard I thought it might shatter. "That sounds nice."
"Can we invite Coach Amy?" Sophia looked up from her drawing—a picture of stick figures playing soccer. "She said she loves the beach!"
The mug slipped from my hands, coffee splashing across the granite counter.
"I think..." Tom said, "I think Coach Amy probably has her own plans on Sundays."
Tom's eyes met mine over Sophia's head. For a moment, guilt flickered across his features—raw and unmistakable.
I sat there in my perfect kitchen, surrounded by the debris of my perfect life, Amy's watch band weighing down my pocket like a stone.
My marriage was over. Had been over for God knows how long.
The only question now was what I was going to do about it.