last of my food. Had the milk been bad? Or the eggs? Had the hamburger been tainted? Or maybe laced with LSD? It seemed as feasible as magical meatloaf.
Still, that goddamn coffee cup loomed in my mind, niggling at my confidence.
Look.
I glanced around our house. Everything was the same as it always was. I thought back to when I’d come home on Sunday night. The TV remote resting on the end table on my side of the couch, an empty water glass next to it. The TV, when I’d turned it on to check the forecast, tuned to ESPN. Monday morning, the little lever on the shower nozzle, left in the up position. All evidence another man had sat in my seat. Watched my TV. Showered in my bathroom.
No. I shook my head, trying to shake the images free. I was being melodramatic. Making things up. Confusing Sunday night with all the other nights I’d come home.
Except , that traitorous mug in my head whispered, for ESPN. And the shower. And the towels.
“Towels?”
“What about the towels?” Chase asked.
I jumped. I hadn’t even realized I’d spoken out loud. “I don’t know,” I said, feeling numb. “What about them?”
He blinked at me, confused.
Who could blame him? I wasn’t feeling too sure about things either. “I think I’m going to bed.”
“Already? It’s only eight. What about the fireworks?”
“I’m really not up for it tonight.”
“Are you sick?”
“No. I’m just….” Suddenly questioning everything? No, that wasn’t it. Suddenly under the influence of Granny B’s mystical meatloaf? No, that was even more absurd. I didn’t believe in magical ground beef, with or without Worcestershire Sauce. “I’m tired,” I finished lamely.
“Okay. Well, I’ll finish cleaning up. And then….” He sounded far away, lost in thought. “I don’t know. I might get out my guitar. I can’t believe it’s been so long since I played.”
I barely heard him. I went slowly down the hall to our bedroom, dread pooling in my gut. I didn’t look around our bedroom. I didn’t want to see anything else. I only wanted to take out my contacts, brush my teeth, take a sleeping pill—maybe even a double dose—and cease thinking.
I succeeded at the first task, and most of the second. But as I turned to dry my face and hands, I again stopped short.
On Friday, before I’d left, I’d thrown the gray hand towel into the hamper. I hadn’t replaced it. But when I’d come home on Sunday, the blue towel had been here, hanging from the little plastic hoop on my side of the dual vanity.
The world swayed. Or maybe it was my knees buckling. I groaned, closing my eyes. Did I really, truly remember tossing the gray towel in with the dirty clothes? Could I say with 100 percent surety I hadn’t taken a blue towel out of the closet at the same time? Maybe I’d done it Sunday night when I brushed my teeth. It was such a mundane task, there was no reason I would have remembered doing it. Or maybe Chase had noticed the empty towel holder and put one up for me before I came home.
But I knew it wasn’t true.
Was he really so low as to betray me in our own house? Would he really let another man stand here, in our bathroom, brushing his teeth on my side of the sink? My stomach turned as I considered who might have used the towel other than me.
I stumbled into the bedroom. Pulled down the bedspread. Stared dumbly at the sheets. Not the sheets we’d had on the bed last week. We’d definitely had the red solids on last week. Egyptian cotton. Five hundred thread count. Bought together at Target. But these? These were ice-blue, striped, 1200 thread count, bought online in a fit of indulgence.
Look , that unsympathetic voice in my head whispered.
I’d come too far to stop now, even if I wanted to. My feet moved of their own accord, carrying me around the bed to Chase’s nightstand. I slid the drawer open. Took out the box of condoms. Fifteen years together and yet we still used them. How many times had I questioned the
Still, that goddamn coffee cup loomed in my mind, niggling at my confidence.
Look.
I glanced around our house. Everything was the same as it always was. I thought back to when I’d come home on Sunday night. The TV remote resting on the end table on my side of the couch, an empty water glass next to it. The TV, when I’d turned it on to check the forecast, tuned to ESPN. Monday morning, the little lever on the shower nozzle, left in the up position. All evidence another man had sat in my seat. Watched my TV. Showered in my bathroom.
No. I shook my head, trying to shake the images free. I was being melodramatic. Making things up. Confusing Sunday night with all the other nights I’d come home.
Except , that traitorous mug in my head whispered, for ESPN. And the shower. And the towels.
“Towels?”
“What about the towels?” Chase asked.
I jumped. I hadn’t even realized I’d spoken out loud. “I don’t know,” I said, feeling numb. “What about them?”
He blinked at me, confused.
Who could blame him? I wasn’t feeling too sure about things either. “I think I’m going to bed.”
“Already? It’s only eight. What about the fireworks?”
“I’m really not up for it tonight.”
“Are you sick?”
“No. I’m just….” Suddenly questioning everything? No, that wasn’t it. Suddenly under the influence of Granny B’s mystical meatloaf? No, that was even more absurd. I didn’t believe in magical ground beef, with or without Worcestershire Sauce. “I’m tired,” I finished lamely.
“Okay. Well, I’ll finish cleaning up. And then….” He sounded far away, lost in thought. “I don’t know. I might get out my guitar. I can’t believe it’s been so long since I played.”
I barely heard him. I went slowly down the hall to our bedroom, dread pooling in my gut. I didn’t look around our bedroom. I didn’t want to see anything else. I only wanted to take out my contacts, brush my teeth, take a sleeping pill—maybe even a double dose—and cease thinking.
I succeeded at the first task, and most of the second. But as I turned to dry my face and hands, I again stopped short.
On Friday, before I’d left, I’d thrown the gray hand towel into the hamper. I hadn’t replaced it. But when I’d come home on Sunday, the blue towel had been here, hanging from the little plastic hoop on my side of the dual vanity.
The world swayed. Or maybe it was my knees buckling. I groaned, closing my eyes. Did I really, truly remember tossing the gray towel in with the dirty clothes? Could I say with 100 percent surety I hadn’t taken a blue towel out of the closet at the same time? Maybe I’d done it Sunday night when I brushed my teeth. It was such a mundane task, there was no reason I would have remembered doing it. Or maybe Chase had noticed the empty towel holder and put one up for me before I came home.
But I knew it wasn’t true.
Was he really so low as to betray me in our own house? Would he really let another man stand here, in our bathroom, brushing his teeth on my side of the sink? My stomach turned as I considered who might have used the towel other than me.
I stumbled into the bedroom. Pulled down the bedspread. Stared dumbly at the sheets. Not the sheets we’d had on the bed last week. We’d definitely had the red solids on last week. Egyptian cotton. Five hundred thread count. Bought together at Target. But these? These were ice-blue, striped, 1200 thread count, bought online in a fit of indulgence.
Look , that unsympathetic voice in my head whispered.
I’d come too far to stop now, even if I wanted to. My feet moved of their own accord, carrying me around the bed to Chase’s nightstand. I slid the drawer open. Took out the box of condoms. Fifteen years together and yet we still used them. How many times had I questioned the
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