My Husband Never Took Me on Trips with His Friends. Then I Saw a Video of Him Kissing Another Woman novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: The Bare Table

At her sister's place Melina decides not to cook and not to be home when Cory lands. She packs her papers, takes the roast, and leaves her wedding ring in the middle of the dining table.

Megan watched the recording standing up, with her work badge still clipped to her scrubs.

She didn't say anything until it ended.

Then she took my phone, set it face down on her kitchen counter, and pointed at a chair.

"Sit. Eat a cracker. Then tell me everything."

I sat.

I told her about the clinic first, and I slid the report across the counter.

She read it twice and put her hand over her mouth.

"Melina."

"Six weeks," I said. "He doesn't know. I was going to tell him Saturday, after dinner."

Megan laughed once, and it wasn't a happy sound.

"After dinner. After you cooked for his friends."

"Yes."

"Who also knew about this." She nodded toward the phone.

"Everyone in that video did," I said. "They bought her a gift."

My sister has worked nights in an emergency room for ten years.

She keeps her voice level when other people lose theirs.

She kept it level now.

"Did you call him?"

"No. If I hear him explain it, I'll say something I'll regret."

"I'd say something I wouldn't regret at all."

"Megan."

"Fine." She sat down across from me. "Who deleted the video so fast? Somebody saw it and panicked."

"It was Heath's account. He probably noticed who was standing in the background."

"Maybe."

She didn't push it.

She opened the freezer instead, found a bag of peas, and set it against my cheek.

"Okay. What do you want?"

I looked at the table.

"I don't want to be in that house when he lands," I said. "I don't want to hand him a plate and wait for him to look at me."

"Good. Then don't."

"They're all coming to the house on Saturday."

"Let them." Megan's mouth went flat. "You don't owe them roast beef."

I stayed on her couch that night with a blanket she had warmed in the dryer.

I didn't sleep much, but I didn't cry either, and that was something.

On Friday morning I drove home.

The house was quiet and exactly as I had left it.

The groceries for the dinner were on the porch.

I carried the bag into the kitchen and looked inside.

A three-pound roast, salad greens and a bottle of the barbecue sauce Heath liked.

I put the roast in a cooler bag.

It was my roast, and I had paid for it.

I left the sauce on the counter.

My phone rang while I was packing the back bedroom.

It was Thatcher Holden, the man whose coffee shop I was designing, and I almost let it go to voicemail.

"Melina, it's Thatcher. Do you have two minutes?"

"I have two minutes."

"Good. My espresso machine arrived this morning with a plug that doesn't fit any outlet in North America. The delivery man told me, and I quote, 'That's a you problem.'"

I sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Did he sound sorry?"

"He sounded like he had somewhere to be."

I laughed.

It surprised me, and it hurt in my ribs, and I pressed my hand against my mouth.

"Are you all right?" Thatcher asked.

"Sinus thing," I said. "What do you need?"

"Promotional designs for the opening, if your calendar has room. A window sign. Flyers. A menu board that doesn't say 'coffee' in four different fonts."

"I can do Monday afternoon. Video call."

"Monday is great. I'll bring the machine so you can see what I'm up against."

I wrote it in my planner with a hand that was almost steady.

Then I went back to packing.

I took my drawing tablet and my backup drive.

I took my passport and the folder from the nightstand with our deed, my contracts, and the clinic report in the inside pocket.

I packed jeans, sweaters, and my walking shoes.

Hanging beside Cory's jacket was the sweater he gave me for my birthday.

I left it there.

I carried the suitcase downstairs and went to the dining table.

Six chairs were pushed in, and two folding chairs leaned against the wall for Saturday.

I stood there with my left hand on the polished wood.

Cory had slid that ring on at the courthouse steps with his hands shaking, and I had thought it meant he was nervous.

I worked it over my knuckle.

It stuck, and I twisted it until it gave.

It lay in my palm, warm.

I set it in the center of the table, right where the roast would have gone.

On Saturday, six people would walk in expecting dinner.

They would find the table bare, and my ring on it.

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