Barrett stands in the kitchen doorway holding two paper cups and a bakery bag. His hair is damp from a recent shower. Not our shower. He smells like unfamiliar soap.
"Got your favorite," he says. "Almond croissant. Extra flaky."
I take the cup he offers. The coffee is the right temperature. He remembered I don't like it too hot. Seven years of marriage taught him that much.
"Thank you," I say. "How was the surgery?"
"Brutal. Triple bypass on a fifty-two-year-old. Touch and go for a while." He pulls out a stool and sits at the island. "I'm wiped."
I nod. Sip the coffee. It tastes like nothing.
"You okay?" he asks. "You seem quiet."
"Just tired. Long show."
"Right. Christmas Eve broadcast." He tears into his croissant. "How'd it go?"
"Fine. Good calls."
He doesn't ask what they were about. He never does. For years I told myself he was respecting my work. Now I understand he simply wasn't interested.
I watch him eat. Flakes of pastry cling to his lower lip. He brushes them away with the back of his hand. That hand touched someone else last night. Those fingers. That mouth.
"I'm going to shower," I say.
"Want company?" He grins. The grin that used to undo me.
"I'm good. Thanks for breakfast."
I leave him in the kitchen and walk to the bathroom. Close the door. Lock it. Stand under water hot enough to hurt.
When I come out twenty minutes later, he's gone. A note on the counter: *Rounds at noon. Dinner tonight? Miss you.*
I photograph the note. Add it to a folder on my phone labeled *Recipes*. Then I throw it away.
---
The next three weeks pass like a play I'm performing from inside my own body. I make Barrett's coffee every morning. I ask about his patients. I laugh at his stories. I iron his shirts and hang them in color-coded rows the way he likes.
At night, when he takes calls in his home office, I sit on the other side of the wall with my phone propped on a stack of books. Voice Memos app open. Recording.
His voice comes through muffled but clear enough.
"I can't tonight, babe. Hope's got this thing—" A pause. "No, I know. I miss you too."
Another night: "Did you get the bracelet? … Good. Wear it for me."
Another: "She doesn't suspect anything. I'm careful."
I save each file. Rename it with the date and time. Transfer it to the encrypted drive I keep in my studio locker beside my spare headphones and emergency tampons. No one thinks to look there.
Diana notices something's different. She doesn't ask. She just starts bringing me tea instead of coffee and stops scheduling morning meetings.
---
Barrett's credit card statement arrives on a Tuesday. I open it at the kitchen table while he's at the hospital. Marea: $340. Le Coucou: $287. Cartier: $4,200.
I never got a Cartier bracelet. I got a text that said *they were sold out, sorry babe*.
I photograph every page. Add them to the drive. File the statement back in the drawer exactly where it was.
That night at dinner, Barrett reaches across the table and takes my hand.
"You've been amazing lately," he says. "I know I've been slammed at work. I appreciate you holding things down."
"Of course," I say. My voice is warm. My hand in his is steady. "That's what partners do."
He squeezes my fingers. "I'm lucky."
I smile. "We both are."
He doesn't see me straighten the fork beside my plate. He never does.
---
Leilany gets bolder. She starts wearing the bracelet to the hospital. I know because Barrett's colleague Richard mentions it at a fundraiser.
"That new intern," he says, swirling his scotch. "Gomez. Flashy taste for a resident salary."
I tilt my head. "Maybe it's a family thing. Isn't her father on the board?"
Richard frowns. "Her father? She said she put herself through school. Loans and night shifts."
I file that away too. Not in the drive. In my head. Where it sits like a stone.
Two days later, I'm at the apartment paying our utility bill on the iPad when a photo syncs from Barrett's phone. Leilany in our Tribeca apartment—the one I didn't know existed until three weeks ago. She's wearing one of Barrett's dress shirts. Nothing else. Her legs are crossed on the leather sofa we don't own.
The caption reads: *Miss you already*.
I screenshot it. My hand doesn't shake. I've stopped expecting my hands to shake.
I add it to the drive. Close the iPad. Finish paying the electric bill.
That night, Barrett comes home with roses.
"Just because," he says.
I put them in a vase. Trim the stems at an angle the way you're supposed to. Set them on the dining table where they look expensive and thoughtful.
"They're beautiful," I tell him. "Thank you."
He kisses my forehead. "You're beautiful."
I smile up at him. He doesn't notice that the smile never reaches my eyes.
He stopped looking at my eyes a long time ago.
---
At the station, I start a new segment. Call it *Unfinished Business*. Listeners write in about the confrontations they never had. The things they wish they'd said. I read them on air in my warm, steady voice.
Diana says it's the best work I've ever done.
She's right. Every word I read, I mean for someone else.
The ratings climb. The livestream numbers double. A producer from a national network leaves a voicemail about a television opportunity.
I save the voicemail. I don't call back yet.
I'm not ready yet.
But I'm getting close.
