Oliver posted again. A photo grid this time. The living room of the old estate, the study, the gardens, and one shot of himself. No filter, a plain white tee, standing in front of that carved wooden door, looking cool and remote.
The caption read: "Thank you, for being willing to stay when everyone else walked away."
I almost laughed out loud.
That post was meant for Julia. Obviously.
"What's between you and him now?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all." Julia looked at me. "I told you. I'm just helping him out."
"Then what's that post supposed to mean?"
"How would I know what he means?" There was an edge of impatience now. "Can you stop being so sensitive?"
Sensitive.
The first time she called me sensitive was the day Oliver left the country. She'd had a lot to drink. I asked what was wrong, she said nothing, and when I pushed and asked if it was because of Oliver, she said I was being sensitive.
The second time, we ran into a friend of Oliver's at the mall. The guy smiled and said to Julia, "You know Oliver's back?" and Julia said she knew. When we got home I asked when the two of them had been in touch. She said I was being sensitive again.
This was the third time.
I stood up from the couch and handed her phone back to her.
"If you want to help him this badly, why don't I step aside?"
Julia's head shot up. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Exactly what it sounds like." I looked at her. "The two of you should have ended up together in the first place. If he hadn't insisted on going abroad back then, you'd never have married me. Now he's back, things aren't going well for him, and you feel like you owe him. I get it."
"Theodore—"
"I'm tired. We'll talk tomorrow."
I turned and walked into the bedroom and shut the door.
My hands were shaking. Not from anger. Because I knew I was right. The day Julia proposed, I asked her why she chose me, and she said, "You're suitable." At the time I thought that was just her, never one for pretty words.
Only now did I understand. She really did just think I was "suitable."
Not like Oliver, the one she could never stop thinking about.
My phone buzzed. I picked it up. A message from Julia.
"I only think of Oliver as a friend. If it bothers you, I won't contact him anymore."
I didn't reply.
She sent another. "The eight million was my mistake. Tomorrow I'll move the money into our joint account and treat it as a loan."
Still no reply.
When the third message came through, I turned off the phone.
At some point it had started raining outside. I lay down and stared at the ceiling. Three years ago, when we got married, I thought I was the luckiest man alive.
Julia was beautiful, successful in her career, and thoughtful enough with me. She agreed not to keep flowers, because I'm allergic to pollen. She said she didn't like cats, then kept three for me anyway. She remembered every one of my habits.
I thought it was because she loved me.
Now I wonder if she was just used to being good to someone.
Who that someone was, honestly, didn't matter.
I couldn't sleep, tossing and turning. A little past two in the morning, I got up for a glass of water and saw the living room light still on.
Julia wasn't asleep.
She was sitting on the couch, phone in her hand, the screen still lit. I came closer and saw it was her chat thread with Oliver.
The last message was from him: "Julie, thank you for today. The keys to the old estate—when should I give them to you?"
Sent a minute ago.
Julia hadn't replied yet.
I stood behind her for a long time and she never noticed. In the end I was the one who spoke. "If you want to go see him, then go. You don't have to hide it from me."
Julia spun around, and the phone clattered to the floor.
