Chapter 7: The Conversation That Couldn't Wait Until Morning
Carol left at nine.
Grant walked her to her car while I cleared the table.
I heard them talking in the driveway, their voices low, and then the sound of her car pulling away.
He came back in through the front door and stood in the hallway.
I was at the sink.
"That went well," he said.
"Did it."
He came into the kitchen and leaned against the counter.
The same spot as before.
Same posture.
Like we were going to have the same kind of conversation.
We weren't.
"Your phone buzzed at dinner," I said.
"It was nothing."
"You turned it face-down."
"I didn't want to be rude."
I turned off the water and dried my hands.
I turned around.
"Grant, I pulled up the phone bill."
He didn't move.
"There's a number that shows up eleven times in the last six weeks.
Always at lunch.
Always on weekdays."
His jaw tightened.
Just slightly.
"The number belongs to Calloway Advisory," I said.
"Which is Diane's consulting business."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"It's work," he said.
"Show me the contract."
"What?"
"If she's consulting for your team, there's a contract.
Show it to me."
He pushed off the counter.
"I'm not going to stand here and be interrogated in my own kitchen."
"Then sit down."
"This is—"
"Eleven calls, Grant.
Six weeks.
You said her name in this kitchen and told me it was a slip.
I want to know what's going on."
He turned toward the hallway.
"Don't walk away from me."
He stopped.
His back was to me.
His shoulders rose once, slowly, and then dropped.
"It's not what you think," he said.
"Then tell me what it is."
He turned around.
His face looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with the hour.
"She reached out in January.
She said she was starting her own practice and wanted to know if our company would consider her for some contract work.
I passed her name to our procurement team.
That's it."
"Eleven personal calls is not a procurement referral."
"They weren't all—" He stopped.
"Weren't all what?"
He looked at the ceiling.
"She was going through a hard time.
Her marriage ended.
She called a few times just to talk.
I should have told you.
I know that."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I knew how it would look."
"How does it look, Grant?"
He met my eyes.
"Like something it isn't."
I studied his face.
The stillness.
The reasonableness.
"I want to believe you," I said.
"Then believe me."
"I want to.
But you hid it.
And you said her name when you were nervous.
And you turned your phone over at dinner when she texted you on a Saturday night."
He didn't answer.
"Is that what it was?
Her texting you tonight?"
A long pause.
"Yes."
The word landed in the room like something dropped.
"What did she say?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
He reached into his pocket and held the phone out.
I took it.
The message was still on the screen.
*Thinking about you.
Hope dinner wasn't too painful.
You deserve better.*
I read it twice.
I handed the phone back.
"She knows about our dinner."
"I mentioned my mother was visiting."
"And that it would be painful."
He didn't answer.
"And that you deserve better." I kept my voice very level.
"Better than what, Grant?"
He put the phone back in his pocket.
"I need you to tell me the truth right now," I said.
"All of it.
Because I am standing in this kitchen where I have cooked and cleaned and managed and held this house together for fourteen years, and I need to know if I've been doing all of that for a marriage that is actually real."
Grant sat down at the kitchen table.
May you like
He put his head in his hands.
And then, slowly, he started talking.
