In the fifth year of our marriage, I found a strand of hair in Brad Fox's car that wasn't mine.
Chestnut. Slightly wavy. Carrying the faintest trace of gardenia.
My hair is black and straight, and I use jasmine shampoo.
This strand was wound around the seatbelt buckle on the passenger side, wound tight.
As though someone had sat there countless times, leaving a little trace with each one, until it built up into this.
I didn't confront him on the spot.
Not because I'm generous. Because I knew the thing Brad hated most was a scene over nothing.
He'd frown and say, "Isn't it perfectly normal for someone to have ridden in the car? A coworker catches a ride, and you're going to make an issue of it?"
Then he'd look at me with that "how can you be so unreasonable" expression, until I'd feel like I really was blowing things out of proportion.
……
That's how it had always been. Every time, he'd shut me down, and I'd start doubting myself, wondering if I was just too sensitive, too petty, too quick to crowd him.
But this time, I didn't doubt myself.
I put that strand of hair into a sealed bag and tucked it into a drawer.
Then I started paying attention.
Over the past six months, Brad had changed a great deal.
He used to walk straight into his study when he got home. Now he'd sit in the living room for a while, but always on his phone, the corner of his mouth lifting every so often.
He used to bring me a gift when he came back from a business trip. It was always a hand cream set from the airport duty-free, but at least there was something.
Now there wasn't even hand cream.
He used to speak to me in a tone that was neither warm nor cold.
Now he spoke to me with impatience.
As if my very presence in this home were an interruption to him.
I checked his phone bill.
We had a family share plan, and the bill came to my email every month.
There was one number he'd been calling frequently over the past three months. Every day, sometimes four or five times a day. The calls weren't long, but they were constant.
I looked the number up. The profile picture on the messaging app was a white cat.
I'd seen that cat before.
In Agatha Pruitt's posts.
Agatha Pruitt, Brad's junior from college, now in the same industry, the two companies doing business together.
When Brad used to mention her, his tone was as flat as if he were talking about any ordinary coworker.
"Agatha? Oh, she was in our college drama club. She played the lead back then, and I directed her in a few scenes."
"Interesting person. Says what she thinks, doesn't hide things, not like all those girls out there who play games."
"She just got promoted to director. Pretty impressive. That personality of hers really is suited for marketing."
I didn't think much of it at the time.
Looking back now, the admiration in those words had spilled over long ago.
I was just too foolish to hear it.
That day was a Saturday.
Brad was home for once, but he changed his clothes first thing in the morning and stood in front of the mirror for a long while.
He never looked in the mirror before going out.
"Where are you headed?"
I asked him.
"The office. There's a project to discuss."
"But it's Saturday."
"You wouldn't know, since you don't work. Projects don't take weekends off."
Brad was getting impatient.
He picked up the car keys and walked to the door, then suddenly stopped and glanced back at me.
It was a strange look, as if he were hesitating over whether to say something.
But in the end he said nothing and left, the door closing behind him.
I stood on the balcony and watched his car pull out of the complex.
Then I did something I'd never done before.
I called for a ride and followed him.
His car didn't go to the office. It drove to an upscale complex on the east side of the city.
