I try to find the words, but they’re trapped behind a dam of pride that’s finally starting to leak. My throat feels like it’s been lined with sandpaper.
“He said her name,” I manage. The words are tiny, fragile things. “In bed, Wren. He said her name.”
The silence on the other end lasts exactly one second. I can practically hear Wren sitting up, the covers rustling as she shifts into combat mode.
“Tabitha?” she asks, knowing exactly who I mean. We’ve dissected Tabthia’s lingering touches over wine for the last month.
“Yes.”
The confirmation tastes like chalk in my mouth. I close my eyes, and the image I’ve been trying to suppress for weeks flares up behind my eyelids: the company holiday party last month, Tabitha standing too close to him near the bar, her hand lingering on the sleeve of his jacket as if she were checking the fabric for lint.
When I walked up to them, she didn’t pull away. She just smiled—a territorial little glint, and said, “Ross is brilliant tonight, isn’t he?” She gazed at him like he was the sun, and she looked at me like I was a cloud blocking her light.
I knew it then. I knew she wanted to be the one standing next to him.
And now, in the dark, he proved she was.
“Stay here,” Wren says. There’s no pity in her tone, only a fierce, protective pragmatism. “I’m serious. Pack a bag. Don’t think, don’t analyze the spatial logic of his excuses, and for the love of God, do not listen to him if he tries to talk to you. Just pack your essentials and get in the car. My guest room is ready.”
“I don’t know if I can move.”
“You can, because you’ve been carrying that man’s career and ego on your back for five years. A suitcase is lighter. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Just come.”
The call ends.
I sit there for a heartbeat, the phone glowing in my hand. Then, I stand. The sheet drops to the floor, a white circle of surrendered territory.
I move to the closet. It’s a walk-in, a masterpiece of organization Ross designed for me last spring. The lighting is recessed and soft. The shelves are perfectly spaced. It’s a beautiful cage.
Pulling my leather overnight bag from the top shelf, I think of our weekend trips to the coast, about the getaways we used to plan and then cancel because of “scheduling conflicts.” I set it on the bench and start pulling hangers.
Jeans. Three sweaters. My silk robe, no, not the robe. Never the robe again. I leave the silk where it is. I grab my oldest, heaviest flannel shirt.
I need layers. Protection.
From the living room, the floorboards groan. Ross is pacing. I can picture him perfectly, his hands running through his hair, his brow furrowed as he tries to make this go away. He’s probably rehearsing a new set of apologies, trying to find a way to pivot the narrative so that he’s the victim of his own ambition.
I zip the first compartment of the bag. The sound is like teeth clicking together.
Next, I move to the vanity. My pearls are sitting there, glowing like tiny, mocking moons. I leave them. Same with the expensive perfumes. I grab my toothbrush, my face wash, and a bottle of aspirin.
A tear escapes, landing on the leather of the bag. As I wipe it away with the back of my hand, another one follows. I’m not sobbing, but more… leaking.
His footsteps approach the bedroom door. They stop. I can sense him standing on the other side of the wood, his hand probably hovering over the knob.
“Margot?” His voice is muffled, tentative. “Are you okay in there? I heard you talking.”
Now he cares. Never cared when he was late for dinner every night. Or cared when I voiced wanting to spend more time with him. But now that he’s royally messed up, he cares.
Because I don’t owe him a syllable, I continue folding a pair of wool socks.
“I’m really sorry, Margot.Please.We can talk about this. We can fix it.”
Fix it.He talks about our marriage like it’s a leaky faucet. He thinks you can apply enough sealant to hold it.
I zip the bag shut. Done.
Since I’m horrifically underdressed, I yank on a pair of leggings and a hoodie, all to hide the woman who wore silk and pearls for a man who wasn’t really present. I grab my keys from the nightstand.
