1: 1
On Valentine's night, my surgeon husband called to say he had to work overtime, last minute.
I went quiet for a moment, then tapped open the Instagram feed of that young nurse, Savannah Fox, the way I already knew how.
The photo was a corner of the hospital locker room, Stan Mason stripped to the waist, sweat soaking his back.
A pair of hands with strawberry-pink nails was wrapped tight around his waist.
The caption read: The way you sweat for me. So hot.
Late that night, I found two condoms missing from the nightstand drawer.
I shut the drawer and dialed the number I thought I'd never call again in this life.
"Tell that man I'm coming back."
1
"Still up? I brought you seafood chowder."
Stan didn't get home until three in the morning.
He set the takeout box on the coffee table and turned toward the bathroom.
An hour earlier, I'd seen Savannah's post on Instagram.
The photo was a whole spread of seafood, salmon carpaccio, garlic-butter scallops, spicy fried crab.
Off in the corner, two empty wine glasses.
The caption: "Thanks to a certain someone for boxing up my leftover seafood chowder for the strays on the street."
Under the running water in the bathroom, a phone's speaker was playing on speaker.
The voice was sweet and clingy, like sugar half melted.
He used to shower in the time it took two songs to play.
Now it was half an hour at the least.
When Stan came out of the bathroom, he found the chowder on the coffee table untouched.
"Not hungry? It won't taste good once it's cold."
He asked without lifting his eyes from his phone.
I pressed down the sour ache rising in me and asked him:
"After all these years married, you don't know I'm allergic to shellfish?"
The words landed, and his hand froze mid-motion in the towel, a little irritation in his voice.
"Nobody's forcing you to eat it if you don't want it."
He was about to turn back to the bedroom when I said, calmly:
"Let's get a divorce."
He finally looked up, brows tightening a little, his tone impatient.
"Don't start. So I worked overtime and didn't spend Valentine's with you. I'll make it up to you tomorrow."
He dug a velvet box out of his black work bag.
Opened it. A ring.
"Didn't you always say the old wedding band was dated?"
"Savannah helped me pick this one, said it's this year's newest style. Try it."
He pinched the ring and moved to slide it onto my finger.
I pulled my hand back, away from his touch.
He blinked, his hand stalled in the air.
My eyes went to his left hand, to the clean, bare ring finger.
"Where's your wedding ring?"
I asked him, my voice level.
He glanced down at his ring finger, went blank for a second, then said, offhand:
"Oh, took it off for a surgery tonight. Forgot to bring it home."
"You didn't have a surgery tonight."
A month ago I'd taken soup to the on-call room for Stan on his shift.
Savannah was sitting in his chair taking selfies, that plain band on her ring finger catching the light.
There was a faint scratch on the inside of the band. He was always knocking it against the edge of the sink when he took it off, and I'd wiped it clean for him more times than I could count.
He froze, a flicker of guilt in his eyes, then he pushed his voice up and demanded, hard:
"Claire Swanson, what exactly are you trying to say? Checking up on me now? I worked a full shift, I'm exhausted, and I come home to be interrogated like this?"
I sat on the couch, saying nothing, just watching him calmly.
Our eyes held for a few seconds, and the guilt in his was impossible to hide.
He took half a step back without thinking, trying to escape my gaze.
Tripped on something on the floor and staggered before he caught himself.
He glared down at the new cushion and storage box I'd bought to redo his on-call room, and said, irritated:
"You've got time to check up on me but not to clean up around here. It's always a mess. Savannah's young, and yesterday she tidied up my on-call room, sorted all the old stuff into neat little piles. Sharp, easy to have around. Not like you."
I looked at Stan with something close to a smile.
"If she's so sharp, let her be your wife."
Stan stood there stunned for two seconds, his face flushing hot, and roared at me through gritted teeth:
"I've put up with you long enough. A grown woman throwing tantrums morning to night!"
He finished shouting, turned on his heel, and headed for the bedroom.
I watched his back, my voice without a single rise or fall:
"That day at the prenatal checkup, something went wrong. The baby's gone."
