Prologue
Holley
Glistening catches my eye, the hum of the vacuum no longer soothing me as my curiosity is piqued. Cutting off the machine and shifting the sofa ever so slightly, there the metallic piece sits taunting me.
The earring under the couch.
It’s small and sparkly and absolutely not mine, and for a full three seconds my brain tries to make it something innocent. A friend’s? A coworker’s? Something that fell out of a bag?
Something, anything, other than what it is.
Even if my gut has been screaming at me for months that things aren’t quite right between us, love is blind right?
Then I see the smear of red on the inside of the cushion where the fabric dips—his shirt smeared with a similar shade on the collar. One random night he came home late, it all crashes through my head again. “Traffic is a bitch,” he explained, dropping a kiss on my cheek that smelled like a perfume I don’t own.
The earring glints up at me from the floor like it’s proud of itself.
I rock back on my heels a little and just… stare at it.
It’s quiet in the house. Late afternoon light comes through the front windows, warm and golden, making all the dust I haven’t bothered to clean float like lazy snow. The Christmas boxes are still in the hall closet, untouched, because I haven’t had the energy to drag them out. We were supposed to decorate this weekend. All thoughts of holiday spirit leave my mind.
I’m holding another woman’s earring in my hand instead.
My throat tightens. My heartbeat thuds in my ears. This can’t be happening.
“No,” I whisper, even as every piece slides into place. The drunken laughs on his phone late at night. The sudden gym membership, the new cologne, the way he started complaining that I was distant whenever I said I was tired.
I am tired. Tired from working the extra shifts. Tired from patching the budget, paying the bills he forgot. Tired from carrying both of us while he stays between opportunities that somehow always involve craft beer and networking.
And now I’m tired of being stupid.
The sound of the garage door opening snaps me out of it. The earring feels heavy in my palm.
I close my fingers around it and stand up.
The door from the garage squeaks open a second later. “Holls? You home?”
His voice is casual and warm, like we’re a normal married couple and there isn’t another woman’s jewelry pressed into my sweaty palm.
“In here,” I call, and I’m surprised my voice doesn’t crack. It comes out level. Almost bored. Is this where we have ended up? I am so shut down I’m numb.
He comes into the living room carrying a brown paper bag with the liquor store logo. Great. More liquor we can’t afford. His dark hair is mussed like he’s run his hands through it, his blue button-down is untucked, jeans slung low. He looks like the version of himself he likes to present to the world: laid-back, charming, and a little edge to him. The guy without a care in the world.
“Hey,” he greets, grinning, setting the bag down on the coffee table. “I thought we could do margaritas tonight, make it a thing. I grabbed that?—”
I open my hand instantly silencing him. The earring gleams between my fingers. Or maybe it’s in my head the way the light seems to beam down on the small metal jewel.
His words cut off like someone pulled a plug.
For a second, all the blood drains from his face. It’s subtle—just a beat, just a flicker—but I know him. I’ve known this man for twelve years, been married to him for eight. I know the blink too slow, the swallow, the recalibration. Then he plasters on a confused smile. “What’s that?”
I don’t blink. “You tell me.”
He laughs, but it’s too quick, too high. “Holls, come on. It’s an earring. Probably yours?”
“It’s not mine.” My voice is quiet, steadier than I feel. “Try again.”
He takes a step toward me, palms out like he’s approaching a skittish animal. “Babe, relax. It’s probably from— I don’t know, from when you had your sister over last month. Or?—”
