Matt blinked, and she could almost see his brain fumbling for the right response. “Yes. Why would you ask that?”
“Because I’m not.”
“Are you implying—”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m saying it.” That was better. Her anger had wrapped her voice in steel. Instead of being shattered, she’d become a blade. “If you think a congressional campaign would be easier with—”
“Would you stop?” Matt reached for her hands. “It’s not an election strategy, Rachel. This is about me falling in love with someone else.”
Falling in love? That couldn’t be right. Their life was a blur of photo ops and campaign fundraising events. Their nights were surfing cable news shows or mining social media mentions for useful sound bites. Matt’s political career had the velocity of a comet that incinerated every free minute in its path—including her minutes, her life, and all that time she spent flourishing cakes with royal icing. When did he find time to fall in love?
Rachel let her eyes roam around the bedroom she had designed—the fluffy white down comforter, the espresso-colored furniture, the bright turquoise accents—everything was coordinated, down to the small fringe hanging from the curtains in the master bathroom. That’s what she did in her spare time. Generate new palettes on her color wheel app while Matt kept secrets and nodded absently at variations of ecru.
“Why are you telling me this?” Her voice trembled, close to cracking. “You were obviously fucking her behind my back for months. Suddenly you can’t think of a decent lie?”
Matt flinched. He wasn’t used to being called a liar to his face. That’s what happened when you were the firstborn Abbott golden boy—no one bothered to hold you accountable. He released her hands and put more distance between them. “I was going to tell you once the election was over. I didn’t want you to find out like this. It’s embarrassing.”
He really meant inconvenient. Matt’s mayoral reelection was a formality—a small step in his ascension to an empty US congressional seat. The position had been vacated by a ten-term octogenarian who’d been accused of quid pro quo sexual harassment. Matt was being vetted as his replacement because, besides his progressive agenda, he was bankably bland. A young blue blood with a picture-perfect marriage to a Black woman he’d lifted from poverty like some liberal fairy-tale prince. Dumping Rachel for his white mistress would ruin the narrative.
Matt looked down at his hands. They were thinner than when she met him, which didn’t seem fair. Her old rings didn’t fit anymore.
“You’re embarrassed?” She waited until he made eye contact again. “I just threw you a frat boy Pinterest party. How do you think I feel?”
Matt didn’t answer, which was probably for the best. What could he say besides some cliché like he never meant to hurt her? He might as well admit that ripping her life apart wasn’t a big deal because she was the last thing on his mind. “What’s her name?”
He tensed. “Does it matter?”
“I should know who stole my life.” The woman Rachel pictured was the opposite of herself—blond, willowy, and born swaddled in Chanel. But then she remembered how Matt used to look at her before they got married, like she was priceless. “You’ve ruined me for other women,” he’d said. “How could anyone compare to you?”
Rachel bit back a laugh. Or a sob. She couldn’t tell the difference. “We have to separate.”
“No.” Matt waved away the idea. “I might as well write a signed confession and mail it to every news station in the country.”
Her jaw tightened. Even now, it was all about him. “I am done scheduling my life around your career. And I don’t want you in my house.”
“It’s my house, Rachel.”
She knew it was just his flailing attempt to win the argument. Matt winced, fidgeting inside this new, dickish skin. When his pacing brought him to a wall mirror, he stepped away from his own reflection. Rachel held her breath, waiting for him to take it back.
Two months after their honeymoon, Matt handed her a brochure of real estate listings and dismissed his million-dollar town house with an eye roll. “This place is too small. Faith needs a backyard. Pick something.”
Rachel hadn’t argued, even though the home they already shared was large enough to have an echo. The realtor showed them sprawling colonials in subdivisions with names that sounded like resorts. It was overwhelming. When she walked into what would eventually become their three-story Georgian on Millwood Avenue, she had burst into exhausted tears.