Hallie’s voice interrupts the vision. “Hi, Mrs. Bishop!”
Marissa shakes off the memory. “Nice to see you, Hallie.”
“I told Hallie I still had twenty-six minutes left today,” Bennett says without looking up.
Marissa leans over and kisses Bennett’s head.
“Funny how you forgot to do your math homework yesterday but can calculate every second of screen time you’ve earned.” Marissa smiles at Hallie. “Twenty-six minutes. Then games or books.”
“I got it, Mrs. Bishop.” Hallie smiles, and Marissa is struck by the teenager’s sweetness. Hallie usually pours herself a glass of milk, rather than the LaCroix or Diet Coke the other sitters prefer. And instead of watching those inane TikTok videos on her phone, she actually seems to enjoy the TV shows Bennett likes to watch.
“Bye, Bennett, bye, Hallie,” Marissa calls as she heads into the kitchen.
“Bye, Mom!” Bennett calls back. Matthew should be standing by the door that connects the kitchen to the garage, his coat over one arm, scrolling through his iPhone as he usually does when he has to wait for her. But he’s not there.
She frowns and circles back, making her way to the formal living room off the front door. It’s empty, too.
She finds her husband in his office, seated in his favorite leather chair. At first she thinks he must be on a last-minute business call. Then she notices he’s simply staring into space.
Dread infuses her body.
She steps inside, quietly closing the door.
Matthew is dressed for a night out, wearing dark jeans, a button-down, and his navy blazer. He holds what appears to be a gin and tonic, but the glass is completely full. She wants to walk over to him and sit on his lap, running her hand through his thick blond hair. She wants him to hold her the way he used to, pinning his strong arms around her so tightly it stole her breath away. For a moment she’s tempted to try.
Then she notices he’s not wearing shoes.
“Hey.” Matthew looks up briefly before his eyes cut away, as if he can barely stand the sight of her.
“Matthew,” she whispers, a plea in her tone. “Are you ready?”
“I’m not going,” he says evenly, as if he’s simply informing her that the moon is out.
Her heartbeat accelerates. “What do you mean? We have a reservation.” As she speaks the words, she realizes how ridiculous they sound.
“I can’t do it, Marissa.” Matthew finally meets her gaze. “Every time I look at you … every single time … I just see you fucking that guy.”
“But we told Avery—”
He lets out a harsh laugh. “Avery’s not our boss. She works for us.”
Tears prick Marissa’s eyes. “Please, Matthew. Give this a chance. It’s only dinner.”
He leans forward, his expression tightening. “I drove by your gym today. I wanted to go inside and kill every single guy there. I lie awake at night imagining you with him. I just—” His explosive words abruptly cut off as he regains control. “I can’t do this. Not tonight.”
Marissa nods. Her throat is so tight it’s difficult to speak. Her life until now has felt straight and true. She worked hard, married the man she loved, built a family she cherishes. She can’t believe she risked everything so recklessly. So selfishly.
“I’m still going. I’ll be thinking about you. About us.”
She exits, closing the door quietly behind her.
* * *
The restaurant, Mon Ami Gabi, is a perfect mix of lively and romantic with its dark wood paneling, charming bar, and white-clothed tables. Marissa, seated toward the back, is surrounded by couples, most chatting comfortably but a few sitting in silence and barely looking at each other, as if they’d exhausted all their conversational topics long ago.
During the early years of their relationship, she and Matthew were in the first group—leaning in, laughing. When did they begin the slide toward the second one? There isn’t a demarcation line she can point to; no triggering event that created the environment that made her susceptible to a one-night affair. She’d like to blame their marital drift on the busyness of everyday life, the demands of their jobs and schedules, the toll two miscarriages and her subsequent fertility treatments had taken on them. But the truth is, she knows couples with far more responsibilities and pressures who seem to have maintained strong emotional links.
She squeezes a wedge of lime into her Perrier, noticing a guy a few tables away reaching across the table to hold his date’s hand. They’re young and fresh-faced, and something about them—the creases in his shirt that suggest he tried to iron it himself, and the way the girl’s hair has been styled to drape over one shoulder—tugs at Marissa’s heart.