Things were on track, as far as I could tell. Facebook was old news, but Skye’s regularly updated Instagram showed that things between her and my husband were progressing quite nicely. There they were at a Christmas party; there was a cute little selfie of the happy couple in Palm Beach. I’d grown used to the diminished frequency of Burke’s phone calls; now that he and Skye were living together, I knew he had less time to himself. Once, during one of our rare calls, I asked him how it was being with a girl like her.
“A girl like her? What does that mean?”
“You know. A girl you might find in an asylum,” I poked, digging for dirt.
“She isn’t crazy, Heather.” His voice had an edge.
On Valentine’s Day I waited patiently for my phone to ring or for a bouquet of roses to be delivered to the door, but by midnight it was clear that no romantic gesture would be made.
That’s the funny thing about red flags, I suppose—not seeing them never feels like a choice.
The second to last Friday in February, the day Burke was scheduled to arrive home for the weekend, I woke up like a kid on Christmas morning. I could tell the minute he walked through the door that something was different. It was in his eyes, the way they passed over my face without lingering, even for a moment. He looked at me, but he didn’t see me. Claws dug into the pit of my stomach. Then I realized he hadn’t even asked for a pickup from the train station—he’d opted for a cab. The claws dug deeper.
“Where are the kids?” was the first thing out of Burke’s mouth after our stiff embrace.
“They should be here in an hour or so.” Something starkly wrong hung in the air between us; I searched his eyes for an answer, but what I saw in the blazing blue was impenetrable.
“Garrett, too?”
“He might be later since he had to work today, and traffic from Boston could be bad.”
“Got it.” Burke nodded toward the stairs. “I’m gonna grab a shower.”
I waited a couple of minutes to go up to the bedroom, where I heard the shower running in the master bath. But I also heard Burke’s voice—it sounded as if he was on the phone.
I tiptoed toward the bathroom and pressed my ear against the closed door.
“… I love you, too.… Yup, I’m about to hop in the shower, but the water is taking forever to warm up. I can’t wait to be home from this dumb work trip.… Yeah. I know. God, I love you. I miss you so much, Goose, you have no idea…”
I felt a punch in my stomach, solid and quick, as if the wind had been knocked out of me. Carefully, I crept away from the bathroom door, my body numb with shock.
But this is all an act, one half of me justified. This is the Big Plan. Burke is acting, and he’s supposed to be leading Skye on, and he’s doing a damn good job. You should be proud of him.
But the other half of me—my gut—said otherwise. I’d spent thirty years with Burke, and I knew him, almost better than I knew myself. The different octaves of his voice and their respective meanings were deeply ingrained in me; Burke was a charmer, and I could tell when he was turning it on, spewing bullshit, and when he was being genuine. This was the latter.
Burke loved Skye. He missed her. His nickname for her was Goose. How was it all possible? Perhaps it was a midlife crisis, one in which he’d mistaken sex with a millennial for love.
Slowly, I moved down the stairs. I lowered myself onto the couch in the den, trying to stay rational.
Burke was confused. I’d sent him—willingly—into another woman’s bed. He would snap out of it, he would. Skye had somehow lured him in, with her plump, youthful skin and ribbony hair and endless money, but I was Burke’s wife, his partner of three decades. All I had to do was remind him of our love, our children, our future.
Twenty minutes later Burke came downstairs in sweats and a T-shirt, his hair dampened from the shower.
“Whatcha doin’？” He rubbed his nose. That disconnected glaze was over his eyes again, and I felt my stomach sink.
I shrugged. “Nothing. Come here.”
He hesitated, then sat beside me on the couch.
“Maggie and I are going to make your favorite chili tonight.” I turned to face him, inhaling the scent of his damp, clean skin. “But the kids won’t be here for another hour.…” I reached for him, sliding my hand down the waistband of his sweats. My job was to remind Burke that he only had one wife, and it wasn’t Skye.
For the next several minutes I let myself forget the reality that the man I’d been in love with for the better part of my life—the father of my children—had fallen for someone else. I let myself drift back to the old Burke and Heather, those two scrappy lovebirds who’d found their home in each other. As our bodies rocked into a steady, familiar rhythm, I swallowed the inevitability that Burke’s mind was somewhere else and dropped wholly into my body—my body that still wanted him. God, did it still want him.
Then it was over, and Burke got up from the couch too quickly, and it was easy to tell that he’d only done what he had out of obligation. I loathed Skye more than ever, for her bewildering, unforeseen ability to sink her claws into my husband.
On Sunday, before Burke went back to his beloved Goose, I found another private moment with him so I could ask about his progress in proposing to Skye. I gritted my teeth as I watched his face fall in response. I didn’t let him answer before reiterating the white lie I’d already told him several weeks earlier—that Hope’s second-semester tuition was overdue, and that if it wasn’t paid in full by the end of April, she wouldn’t be able to graduate. We were running out of time. Yes, our cash-flow problem was grave, but I made it sound even graver.
By the end of the conversation Burke’s face was stricken with fresh panic, just as I’d hoped. He said he’d already gotten Mr. Starling’s permission for Skye’s hand, and agreed to get the ball rolling on the engagement, and to work on opening a joint checking account with Skye so that he could start sending me money. I felt brittle and angry as I slid the diamond-and-sapphire ring off my finger and placed it in Burke’s palm. It was all part of the plan—I knew they wouldn’t actually get married—but still, the idea of Skye wearing my beloved ring sent venom through my bloodstream.
When Burke said he was happy to take a cab to the train station, I didn’t object.
“So I’ll come back in May,” he offered. “For Hope’s graduation. I’ll get her tuition paid in time, Heather. She will graduate. I can’t believe it. How did our kids grow up so fast? I guess they’re not kids anymore.”
I said nothing, attempting to lock his gaze. He glanced away, but I grabbed his hand.
“Look at me, Burke,” I pleaded, swallowing my anger. “You know how much I love you, right? Your children love you. We’re a family. Don’t forget that.”
He sighed, finally resting his eyes on mine. “I know. I just wish life could be easy, Heather.”
“It can be, Burke. It will be. Eyes on the prize, okay?”
He nodded silently. He squeezed my palm, just once, before walking out the door.
I watched from the kitchen window as his taxi pulled away, a mix of grief and fury crushing my lungs. For days, all I could think about was the phone conversation I’d overheard between Burke and Skye, and the dispassionate, empty way my husband had made love to me afterward, the lifelessness in his hands and eyes.