Chapter 5 - THE SUITCASE AND THE SECRET DINNER ON HER BOOKS
I packed in four minutes.
I took my laptop, medication, toiletries, jeans, three shirts, and the black flats I kept in the suitcase.
Owen stood in the doorway.
“You’re really leaving a wedding over this?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I think I’m leaving eleven years over it.”
His face changed.
“Don’t say that.”
I zipped the bag.
“Why?”
“Because it’s insane.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“We have a house. Businesses. Employees. A life.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re throwing it away because I danced with somebody?”
I picked up the suitcase.
“No, Owen. I’m going somewhere quiet enough to figure out whether I already threw myself away keeping all of that running.”
For once, he had nothing to say.
My sister Hannah lived forty minutes away in Kenosha.
She opened her door at 11:36 p.m. wearing plaid pajama pants and an old college sweatshirt.
She looked at my suitcase.
Then at my face.
“Tea or bourbon?”
“Tea.”
“That bad?”
“Maybe.”
She stepped aside.
“Then tea first.”
Hannah didn’t ask questions.
That kindness nearly broke me.
She made chamomile tea, wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, and sat across from me at the kitchen table while I told her.
Halfway through, she said, “You sent the video?”
“Yes.”
“To her husband?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Hannah.”
“What? If my husband were rubbing his face in somebody else’s hair while I was driving to the wedding, I’d like a notification.”
I laughed.
Then I cried.
Not because of the dance.
Not even because of Camille.
I cried because at 1:08 in the morning, after Hannah went to bed, I opened my laptop.
Numbers had always calmed me.
Numbers didn’t flirt.
They didn’t rewrite history.
They didn’t tell you that what you saw wasn’t what you saw.
I logged into the restaurant accounts.
I didn’t begin by searching for Camille.
I began by reconciling the previous quarter because routine felt like oxygen.
Then I saw an expense I recognized.
April 17.
Chicago.
A steakhouse.
$238.41.
I had personally categorized it as supplier development.
Owen had told me he took a specialty meat distributor to dinner.
But something in my chest tightened.
I searched his calendar archive.
No distributor meeting.
Then I searched the email account connected to our reservation platform.
Buried six months back was a confirmation.
Table for two.
Owen Hale.
And underneath, a forwarded message.
Camille Foster.
See you at seven. I really need this. Thank you for coming.
I stared at the screen.
The restaurant charge sat beside my own accounting note.
Vendor development.
My handwriting.
My category.
My initials.
I had helped my husband expense his secret dinner with his ex-wife’s—
No.
Not ex-wife.
His ex-girlfriend.
My mind was racing so badly I couldn’t think correctly.
I placed both hands flat on the table.
Breathed.
Once.
Twice.
Then a message from Lucas appeared on my phone.
Thank you for telling me. I know that wasn’t easy.
I replied:
I’m sorry you had to find out that way.
Three dots appeared.
Then:
Better tonight than Monday from somebody’s wedding photos.
May you like
I looked at the message for a long time.
He was right.
