I made Wade breakfast every morning that week. Scrambled eggs. Toast. Coffee the way he liked it, with two sugars and a splash of cream. I kissed him goodbye at the door. I asked about his day when he came home. I laughed at his jokes.
I was perfect.
On Wednesday, I told him I had a hair appointment. He barely looked up from his phone.
"Cool," he said. "Don't go too short."
I smiled. "I won't."
The salon was in SoHo. I'd found it online, read every review twice. The stylist's name was Margot. She had purple streaks in her hair and rings on every finger.
I showed her a photo on my phone. A woman with sharp layers and confident eyes.
"You sure?" Margot asked. "That's a big change."
"I'm sure."
She cut twelve inches off. Shaped it into something sleek and deliberate. When she spun the chair around, I didn't recognize myself for a full three seconds.
I looked older. Sharper. Like someone who didn't apologize before speaking.
"You love it?" Margot asked.
I touched the ends. They felt lighter. "I do."
I paid in cash. Left a forty percent tip.
On the way home, I stopped at three stores. I bought clothes I'd never worn before. A black blazer with structured shoulders. Jeans that fit like they were tailored. Heels that made me two inches taller. I didn't try anything on. I just knew.
Wade noticed the hair that night. He stared at me for a long moment when I walked in.
"Wow," he said. "That's... different."
"You like it?"
He hesitated. "Yeah. Yeah, it's good."
He didn't like it. I could see it in the way his smile didn't reach his eyes. In the way he looked at me like I'd rearranged the furniture without asking.
Good.
I started practicing my card tricks again. Every night after Wade fell asleep, I'd lock myself in the bathroom and run through the moves. Palming. False shuffles. The double lift. My grandmother taught me the basics when I was twelve. She said magic wasn't about tricking people. It was about controlling what they saw.
I'd forgotten that. For a whole year, I'd forgotten.
I bought a fresh notebook on Thursday. Plain black cover. No lines inside, just blank pages. I wrote the date on the first page. Then I started listing everything.
The Reddit post. Username, timestamp, exact wording.
Mrs. Gomez's texts. I'd taken photos of Wade's screen that night. I printed them at a FedEx three neighborhoods away, paid cash, and taped them into the notebook.
Blaire's messages. Same process.
The Audi's registration. The apartment lease. The joint bank account Wade kept asking about.
I wrote my grandmother's words inside the front cover. Her handwriting had been shaky near the end, but her voice never was. *"A woman's greatest asset is the integrity she refuses to sell."*
I stored the notebook inside a tampon box under my bathroom sink. Wade had lived with me for six months. He'd never opened that cabinet once.
On Friday night, I told Wade I was meeting an old college friend for drinks. He kissed me on the cheek and said have fun.
I didn't have a college friend. I had Blaire's address.
I took an Uber to her neighborhood in Williamsburg. Waited on the corner across from her building. I didn't know what I was looking for. I just needed to see.
Wade's car pulled up at nine-fifteen. The Audi I bought him. He parked in a loading zone and got out. Checked his phone. Smiled at something on the screen.
Blaire came out ten minutes later. Red coat. Heels. She slid into the passenger seat. Wade leaned over and kissed her. Not a quick kiss. A real one.
I stood there until they drove away. My Uber app crashed twice before I could request a ride. My hands were shaking too hard to type.
Then a car pulled up. Grey sedan. The window rolled down.
"You need a ride?"
I blinked. The driver was maybe thirty-five. Dark hair. Calm eyes. He didn't look like he was hitting on me. He looked like he'd seen someone standing alone in the cold and decided to stop.
"I'm not a creep," he added. "I just... you look like you're having a bad night."
I should've said no. I should've waited for my Uber.
But I was tired. And cold. And something about his voice felt steady.
"Okay," I said.
I got in. Gave him my address. He didn't ask questions. Didn't try to make conversation. Just drove.
When we hit a red light, he glanced over. "You okay?"
"I will be."
He nodded. Like that was a good enough answer.
When we reached my building, I thanked him. He waved it off.
"Take care of yourself," he said.
I got out. Watched him drive away. I didn't even get his name.
Inside, Wade was asleep on the couch. TV still on. Empty beer bottle on the coffee table.
I stood in the doorway and looked at him. This man I'd loved. This man I'd cooked for and bought a car for and imagined children with.
I didn't feel anything.
I went to the bathroom. Opened the notebook. Added one more line.
*Friday, 9:15 p.m. Wade and Blaire. Red coat. My car.*
Then I practiced my card tricks until my hands stopped shaking.
