And then I caught it.
Faint. Floral. Something heavy and sweet that clung to the fabric of his jacket where his arm brushed past me in the doorway — something that was categorically, unmistakably, not his cologne and not mine.
Perfume.
A woman’s perfume.
I went very still inside, even as my feet kept moving, even as I kept my hand in his and followed him into the corridor where the lights were warm and the sounds of the dinner hour floated toward us from the decks above.
Stop it, I told myself.
He went to the gym. He probably passed someone in a corridor. It means nothing.
He is the best husband you have ever seen. He is the man who built a life with you. Stop it, Camila. Stop.
“You’re quiet,” Jason said, glancing down at me.
“Just hungry,” I said, and smiled up at him.
He squeezed my hand, and I squeezed back, and we walked to dinner together while the perfume sat at the back of my throat like a question I wasn’t ready to ask.
CHAPTER 5
CAMILA
I woke up to sunlight and the sound of the ocean.
For a moment I just lay there, eyes still closed, taking stock of everything — the warmth of the sheets, the soft salt breeze coming through the open deck doors, the distant sound of the ship moving through calm water. My whole body felt loose and content in the way it did after a genuinely perfect evening.
And last night was genuinely perfect.
We arrived at the private dining room later than our reservation, and found it nearly empty. Most guests had already moved on to the evening shows and the upper deck bars. Rather than the crowded, noisy dinner I’d expected, we had the whole candlelit room almost entirely to ourselves. The head waiter, a lovely older man named Henri who wore his silver hair parted with military precision, had taken one look at us and quietly arranged something special. A pianist appeared. Then, after our dessert plates were cleared, Henri reappeared and asked if we’d like to dance.
Jason had looked at me across the table with that slow smile.
I thought you’d never ask, he’d said, to Henri, and then he’d held out his hand to me.
We’d danced on the empty floor of the private dining room while the pianist played something I didn’t recognize but which felt exactly right, and I thought:this. This is the thing I’ll remember when I’m very old and trying to think of the best moments of my life. This specific moment, in this specific dress, with this specific man’s hand at the small of my back.
By the time we’d gotten back to the stateroom, we were both loose with wine and contentment and the tiredness that comes from a day that has been extravagantly good. I sat on the bed with Jason’s arm around me, the television on low — some episode of House Hunters, buyers debating open-plan kitchens — and I remembered thinking I should stay awake, we should celebrate properly, it’s the eve of our anniversary.
I didn’t stay awake.
I woke up in the morning, tucked under the covers, with no memory of falling asleep and a faint phantom impression of Jason’s shoulder under my cheek.
I reached across the bed.
Empty. Still warm, but empty.
I sat up and looked around the stateroom. The deck doors were open, the sheer curtains moving in a slow, easy breeze. Sunlight poured across the floor in long golden rectangles. The television was off. Jason’s side of the bed was neatly turned back, his pillow undented. He’d been up for a while.
Then I saw the flowers.
They were on the pillow beside me, a small, perfect bundle of pink petunias. Beside them sat a tray from room service, covered with a silver dome.
I lifted the dome.
Oatmeal with agave and crushed nuts. A Greek omelet, still steaming faintly. Coffee, pressed, exactly the strength I liked. A glass of ginger lemon water, the slices thin the way I preferred.
