On My 35th Birthday, I Found My Husband Had Been Playing House Next Door for 108 Days novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: One Thirty

Dalton apologizes for the dinner and nothing else, Wynn returns his towel, and he picks Wynn's physical therapist over Monica's appointment; alone in the clinic, Monica hears she is six weeks pregnant.

I never slept.

At six I was still staring at the lawyer's number on my phone and hearing him whisper, "Not yet. I told you. Not yet."

I had not called her yet.

At seven, Dalton came downstairs and made pancakes.

He hadn't cooked for me in months.

He poured my coffee with the cream already in it and kissed my forehead.

"I know I messed up," he said. "I shouldn't have skipped your birthday dinner. I'll make it up to you this weekend."

He said nothing about the roses, the livestream or the word "husband" under Wynn's photo.

He had apologized for the dinner and for nothing else.

Then he asked, "Your appointment is at one thirty, right?"

I nodded.

My period was almost two weeks late.

After two failed treatments I had stopped taking early tests, because I couldn't stand watching one more empty window while Dalton pretended not to be disappointed.

Today the doctor would tell us whether we had a reason to hope.

"I'll be done at Bluewater before noon," Dalton said. "We'll have lunch first."

"You'll really come?"

"Of course. You're my wife."

For a moment he sounded like the man who had once bought tiny white baby shoes and written on the box: For the little feet we'll meet someday.

"Okay," I said. "I'll be ready at twelve thirty."

At eight he left.

I cleared the plates and opened my laptop.

An email from the school district sat unread in my inbox.

Curriculum Coordinator: Final Decision.

Six weeks ago I had interviewed for the job of building reading programs across several schools.

When I told Dalton, his first question was who would handle the diving team's travel forms.

I had almost withdrawn.

I closed the email.

One decision at a time.

At ten, the doorbell rang.

Wynn stood on my porch holding a folded navy towel.

It had Dalton's initials stitched into one corner.

"I helped him unload the mats yesterday and got filthy," she said brightly. "He told me to use your shower before I went home. I borrowed his towel and washed it for you."

I looked at the stairs that led to our bathroom.

"You showered here?"

"Dalton said you wouldn't mind." She smoothed the towel against her arm. "Don't worry, he wasn't in there with me."

I hadn't asked.

She glanced at our empty driveway.

"I figured I'd bring it back while he was at work. I hope you're not upset about the livestream. It was just a silly joke."

She smiled at me, open and friendly.

"Please don't use our shower again without asking me," I said.

"Of course! I was only returning his towel."

She went back across the lawn, and I stood there holding something I hadn't known she'd borrowed.

I put it in the laundry room.

Dalton had promised to pick me up at twelve thirty, and I meant to ask him about the shower in the car.

At twelve oh five, he called to say he was leaving Bluewater.

"I booked our favorite cafe," he said.

For the first time since my birthday, I let myself think he would keep one promise.

Then another call beeped in on his end.

When he came back, his voice had changed.

"Something came up. Wynn hurt her back, and her physical therapist can see her today."

"Can't she call a car?"

"She has Milo with her. I'll drive them and meet you at the clinic."

"My appointment is in less than ninety minutes."

"I know, but Wynn is actually injured. You're only going in for a checkup."

"If you drive her, you're choosing to miss my appointment."

"Please don't make this another competition, Monica."

He hung up.

At twelve forty-five I ordered a rideshare.

At one thirty the nurse called my name, and the chair beside mine stayed empty.

I checked my phone.

Dalton had not texted.

The doctor came back twenty minutes later with a paper in her hand.

"It's positive, Monica," she said. "You're about six weeks pregnant."

I read the paper twice.

Three years, two failed treatments and more negative tests than I could count, and there was a baby.

My baby.

I put my hand flat on my stomach while she explained the next visits.

I looked at the empty chair and then at my phone, where there was still nothing from my husband.

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