For six days, I wore the mask of a wife who knew absolutely nothing. It was the most difficult role I had ever played. Not the divorce.
Not the courtroom. Not even watching Carter’s mother break down when she discovered her perfect son had deceived everyone around him. No, the hardest part was sharing a dinner table with him each evening while he spread butter across his bread and lied to me as effortlessly as someone placing a coffee order.
He told me he was traveling to Denver for a business conference. “Three days,” he said Wednesday night, slowly stirring cream into his soup. “Maybe four if the investor meetings take longer than expected.”
Denver.
I almost laughed out loud. The man had packed linen shirts and swim trunks for Denver in November. “Sounds important,” I replied.
“It could change everything for the company,” Carter said. That statement was true, at least. Just not for the reasons he believed.
He reached across the table and wrapped his hand around mine. “You okay, Evie? You’ve seemed quiet lately.”
The nerve of that concern nearly shattered my composure.
I looked down at his hand resting on mine. The gold wedding band I had slipped onto his finger fifteen years earlier gleamed beneath the dining room chandelier. I remembered our vows.
I remembered the tears in his eyes when he spoke them. I remembered believing tears were proof of honesty. “I’m fine,” I said.
“Just tired.”
He nodded with visible relief. He didn’t want my emotions. He wanted my ignorance.
So that was exactly what I gave him. Every morning, I brewed his coffee. Every evening, I asked about his workday.
When his phone vibrated and he flipped it face down, I acted as though I hadn’t seen it. When messages from Vanessa made him smile, I calmly asked whether he wanted another serving of salad. Meanwhile, during lunch breaks and long after midnight, I prepared.
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