Chapter 2

I couldn' t sleep that night. The babies cried in the guest room where Jessica had set them up.

My mind raced. Devastated didn' t cover it.

Part of me, the stupid, accommodating part, wondered if I could do it.

Maybe I had been distant, buried in work. Maybe this was a desperate act.

I went to her in the morning. "Jessica, what about Ethan' s family? Surely they' d want to be involved, to help?"

She scoffed. "They' re not suitable. Besides, Ethan wanted me to have them, for us to raise them."

She emphasized "us."

"I need your full support, Michael. No arguments."

Her eyes were cold. No trace of the woman I thought I married.

A few days passed in a blur of baby sounds and Jessica' s detached instructions.

I started to look, really look, at our life.

In the back of our master closet, behind my suits, I found a designer men's dopp kit I didn't recognize. Inside, expensive cologne, not my brand.

Tucked under it, a box. High-end, lubricated condoms. Used ones.

My stomach churned. "No physical affair," she' d said.

Then the mail came. A letter from the bank, addressed to both of us.

Overdue notice. For a second mortgage on our house.

A substantial one. Taken out six months ago.

I never signed anything. I never knew.

The funds, I had a sick feeling, went to Ethan. Her "terminally ill" ex.

David, my best friend from college, called. I' d been avoiding everyone.

"Mike, you okay? You' ve gone dark."

I couldn' t bring myself to tell him. Not yet.

That weekend, Jessica said she was taking the twins for a doctor' s appointment.

Something felt off.

I followed her.

She didn' t go to a doctor' s office. She drove to a honky-tonk bar on the outskirts of town.

A place I' d suggested we go to years ago. She' d wrinkled her nose. "Country music? Beer? Michael, please."

I watched from my car.

Ethan met her at the door. He didn't look terminally ill. He looked tanned and fit.

He swung her into his arms. They laughed.

Later, through the window, I saw them. Jessica, line-dancing, a craft beer in her hand, beaming up at Ethan.

She was wearing cowboy boots.

She hated cowboy boots. She hated country music. She hated beer.

Or so she' d told me.

The woman dancing in there was a stranger. A stranger who was perfectly mimicking Ethan's tastes.

The lies weren't just about children. They were about everything.