“From my department.”
I knew who she was.
Twenty-eight or twenty-nine.
Tall.
Dark-haired.
Always perfectly put together.
“We’re going over some client handover stuff before everyone gets there,” he explained.
“Handover?”
“Just work stuff.”
“What exactly are you handing over?”
Carl sighed.
“Laura, please. Do we really have to turn every boring work conversation into an interrogation?”
His tone bothered me.
But then again, Carl had been impatient with me for months.
Not openly cruel.
Just distant.
Our conversations had slowly turned into logistics.
Bills.
Groceries.
The kids.
Repairs around the house.
After twenty-three years, I told myself marriages went through seasons.
At least, that was what I wanted to believe.
Saturday afternoon, Carl left almost three hours before I did.
He kissed the side of my head on his way out.
No compliment.
No real goodbye.
Just a quick kiss and the closing of the front door.
I stood there for a few seconds wondering why it felt strange.
Then I got ready and went to the party alone.
I arrived a few minutes after seven.
The moment I stepped into the private dining room, I heard Carl laughing.
I looked toward the bar.
And stopped.
His arm was around Sheila’s waist.
Not brushing against her.
Not helping her balance.
Around her waist.
She was leaning against him.
For a few seconds, I tried to explain it away.
Maybe someone had just taken a photograph.
Maybe she had stumbled.
Maybe I had walked in at the exact wrong moment.
Then Carl leaned toward her and whispered something in her ear.
She laughed.
And moved even closer.
My stomach dropped.
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