The first thing I noticed that Monday morning was Brad’s cologne. The expensive one. The one he hadn’t worn for me in months.
The night before, while he slept, I’d seen a message light up his phone: “See you tomorrow. Don’t forget the cologne I love.”
It was from Chloe. His new secretary. The same young woman who once smiled at me at the office Christmas party and said, “Brad talks about you all the time.”
Months of Little Lies
It hadn’t come out of nowhere. For months, Brad had been “working late” three nights a week. He came home smelling like a perfume I didn’t own. I found restaurant receipts from SoHo, places he’d never taken me. He started guarding his phone like it held nuclear codes.
That morning, he stood at our bedroom mirror in the blue shirt he saved for “important meetings,” spraying cologne on his neck, his wrists, his chest. Humming.
I went downstairs and poured his coffee into his black mug, the one that says “Best Husband.” I used to think it was sweet.
The Coffee
Next to the mug sat a small bottle of laxative I’d bought the night before, in a fog of anger I’m not proud of. I stared at it for a long time. Then I tipped some into his coffee.
I know. I know exactly how that sounds. At the time, all I could think was that he was about to walk into a hotel to meet another woman, and for once, I wanted his day to go as badly as mine had been going for months.
Brad came in fastening his belt, smiling in a way he hadn’t smiled at me in ages. “Is that mine?”
“Made it especially for you.”
He hesitated for half a second at my tone. Then he drank it. All of it.
“Why so much cologne?” I asked.
“Big meeting.” He kissed my forehead without really looking at me and headed for the garage.
I knew the hotel. I knew the time. I even knew Chloe had picked out his tie.
A few seconds later, I heard him yell from the driveway: “DAMN IT!” I almost smiled.
The Open Door
I left to run errands, mostly so I wouldn’t have to think. When I came back two hours later, the front door was standing half open.
Brad’s phone was lying face up on the hallway floor. As I stared at it, a new message lit the screen. From Chloe.
“I did exactly what you asked me to do. Now you have to tell your wife the truth.”
Next to the phone was a white pharmacy bag. My name was printed on the label.
Before I could pick it up, the doorbell rang. Three times. I opened the door.
Chloe was standing on my porch. She was holding a long white garment bag over one arm. And her eyes were red, like she’d been crying the whole way over.
