Jess follows me in and starts clearing the rest of the dishes like nothing is wrong.
I sit there with my arms crossed, waiting for her to face me.
When the tap turns on, I finally snap.
“Sit, Jess.”
She keeps her back to me. “The dishes will only take-”
“I said sit.”
She hesitates, then lets out a breath and turns the water off. Slowly, she dries her hands and takes the seat across from me.
I clear my throat, suddenly unsure what to say now that she’s actually here.
We sit like that for a moment.
Me staring at the woman I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with.
Her refusing to even look in my direction.
“Why?” I finally ask.
Her eyes flicker to mine for a split second before darting away again.
“Look at me,” I say.
She doesn’t.
“Jess.” My fist hits the table. “Look at me.”
She jumps, startled, and finally turns her face toward me.
“You did it,” I say, my voice tight. “At least have the decency to look me in the eye.”
She swallows hard.
“Why?” I ask again.
“I went to the bar-”
“No.” I cut her off before she can say anymore. I’m not ready to hear about her fucking a stranger. “That’s not what I’m asking.”
She falls silent.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demand. “Why did you let me feel like scum for a year while you-”
I stop, unable to finish the sentence.
She stares at me. “You’re mad I didn’t tell you?” she asks slowly.
“Yes,” I yell. “Yes, I’m mad.”
I lean forward, gripping the edge of the table.
“I’m mad that my wife-” I spit the word out, “let everyone believe she was the wronged party for eleven fucking months while she was the one who’d spread her legs for a stranger.”
I lean forward, gripping the edge of the table.
