I stood in front of the full-length mirror, smoothing down the silk of my emerald dress. It was modest, elegant, the kind of dress a wife wears to celebrate four years of marriage. But my reflection looked hollow. The woman staring back at me wasn't excited; she was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I walked out to the living room just as Denise emerged from the guest room.
She was wearing a scrap of red fabric that barely qualified as a dress. It clung to every curve, the neckline plunging dangerously low, the hem riding high on her thighs.
Brandon, who was checking his watch by the door, looked up. His eyes widened, then darkened instantly.
“No,” he said, his voice sharp. “Where are you going wearing that?”
Denise smirked, adjusting a strap that didn't need adjusting. “I’m going out. I’m going to have some fun. It’s boring here with you two lovebirds cooing at each other.”
“No, you won’t,” Brandon snapped, stepping toward her. “That is too revealing. You look like a… you look cheap, Denise. Go change.”
“Why?” she challenged, crossing her arms.
“Because I’m concerned,” Brandon said, his jaw tight. “Your brother wouldn't like it. Kyle would lose his mind if he saw you going out like that.”
I watched them from the hallway. To anyone else, it might have sounded like a protective friend looking out for his best friend’s little sister. But I saw the flare of his nostrils, the possessive way his eyes raked over her exposed skin. It wasn't concern. It was jealousy. Pure, green-eyed jealousy. He didn't want other men looking at what he thought belonged to him.
Denise rolled her eyes. “You’re not my boyfriend, Brandon. And you’re not my brother. I’m just living here because Kyle wants me to, so no. You don't get to tell me what to do.”
She grabbed her purse and strutted past him, the heels clicking loudly on the hardwood floor. The door slammed shut behind her.
Brandon stood there, his fists clenched at his sides, staring at the closed door as if he could burn a hole through it. He was seething.
I cleared my throat.
He jumped, turning to me. For a split second, the rage was still on his face before he smoothed it over with a strained smile.
“Ready, honey?” he asked, though his voice was tight.
The car ride was suffocating. Brandon gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. He kept checking his phone, glancing at the rearview mirror, his leg bouncing nervously.
“If you don’t want to go,” I said quietly, looking out the window, “we can just go back.”
He exhaled sharply. “Sorry. I’m just… I’m worried about Denise. If something happens to her, Kyle would kill me. I promised him I’d look out for her.”
“Is that the only reason?” I asked, turning to look at his profile.
He glanced at me, his eyes wide with feigned innocence. “Of course. What else would it be?”
I just smiled. A small, sad smile. “Okay.”
The restaurant was beautiful. Candlelight, soft violin music, the scent of expensive wine. It was the place where he had proposed to me. But Brandon wasn't there. His body was in the chair opposite me, but his mind was chasing a girl in a red dress.
He checked his phone every thirty seconds. He barely touched his appetizer. When I tried to talk about the weather, about a book I read, he gave one-word answers. “Mmhmm. Yeah. Nice.”
Suddenly, his phone buzzed. He snatched it off the table so fast he almost knocked over his water glass. He read the message, and the color drained from his face.
“I have to go,” he said, standing up abruptly.
“What?” I blinked, my fork hovering halfway to my mouth. “Brandon, we haven't even ordered the main course.”
“It’s an emergency,” he said, already putting on his coat. “Work. A server crashed. It’s a disaster. I have to go to the office right now.”
“On our anniversary?”
“I’m sorry, Maureen. I really am. I’ll make it up to you.” He dropped a stack of cash on the table, not even looking at me. “Take a taxi home. I love you.”
And then he was gone.
I sat there, the "I love you" echoing in the empty space he left behind. The waiter approached, looking awkward.
“Is… is everything alright, ma’am? Should I bring the main course?”
“No,” I said, my voice trembling. “Just the check, please.”
I took a taxi home. The house was dark when I arrived. I expected it to be empty.
But as I walked into the living room, I saw them.
Denise was sprawled on the couch, her red dress rumpled, her makeup smeared. She was laughing, a loud, slurring sound. There was a bottle of tequila on the table, half empty.
And Brandon was there. He was kneeling beside her, wiping her face with a wet cloth. He wasn't at the office. He wasn't fixing a server. He was fixing her.
“You’re such a mess,” he murmured, but his voice was tender, not angry. “I told you not to go out.”
“I just wanted to dance!” Denise giggled, reaching out to touch his face.
Brandon caught her hand and kissed her palm.
Then he saw me. He froze. He stood up quickly, putting distance between them.
“Maureen,” he stammered. “I… I got a call. She was at a bar, drunk. The bartender called me from her phone. I had to go pick her up. It was an emergency.”
So that was the emergency. Not work. Her. She called, and he ran. He left his wife alone on their anniversary because his mistress had a few too many shots.
“I see,” I said. My voice was calm. Too calm.
“I’m sorry about dinner,” he said, taking a step toward me. “I was just about to—”
I walked past him. I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I didn't even look at Denise.
“It’s fine,” I said. “I’m tired.”
I went into the bedroom and locked the door. I leaned against the wood, listening to him whisper to her in the living room, telling her to be quiet, carrying her to the guest room.
My phone pinged.
I pulled it out. A new email notification.
From: Mark
Subject: Divorce Papers - Final Draft
Maureen, the papers are ready. Attached below.
And then, another ping.
From: Immigration Office
Subject: Visa Application Approved
I stared at the screen. The tears that had been threatening to fall all night suddenly dried up.
