Chapter 5: Dinner for Three
I put the folder in the bottom of my winter coat box in the back of the closet.
I made dinner.
Pasta.
The kind Emma liked, with the sauce from the jar she'd picked out herself at twelve years old and still requested at sixteen.
I set the table for three.
Poured water.
Waited.
Mark came in through the garage door, same as always.
Set his keys on the counter, same as always.
"Smells good."
"It's just pasta."
Emma came downstairs when I called.
She was quieter than usual, still carrying the weight of the week.
She sat in her usual chair and pushed the food around her plate.
Mark tried.
"How was school today, Em?"
"Fine."
"Anything interesting happen?"
"No."
He looked at me.
I looked at my plate.
After dinner, Emma went back upstairs.
Mark poured himself a glass of wine and leaned against the counter.
"We should talk," he said.
"About last night."
"Okay."
"I meant what I said.
It's over.
It's been over.
And I know I hurt you and I know it's going to take time, but I want to fix this.
I want to fix us."
I looked at him.
"Did you go to Linda's house in February?"
A pause.
"I told you—"
"Did you tell Sophie that her mother didn't get to decide when things ended?"
His face changed.
"Who told you that?"
"Did you say it?"
"Sophie is a kid.
She misunderstood—"
"Mark." My voice was quiet.
"Did you say those words to a sixteen-year-old girl?"
He set his wine glass down.
"I was upset.
I wasn't thinking clearly.
I would never—"
"You already did."
Silence.
"I need you to understand something," I said.
"Emma has spent this entire week not knowing why her best friend won't speak to her.
She made that girl a scrapbook.
Three months of work.
And the reason Sophie can't look at her is because of what you did.
Emma doesn't know that yet."
He went pale.
"You can't tell Emma."
"I haven't.
But she is going to figure it out eventually.
She is sixteen, not six."
"Please." He stepped toward me.
"Please don't blow this family apart over something that is already finished.
I made a mistake.
A terrible mistake.
But I am still her father.
I am still your husband.
We can get through this."
I looked at him for a long moment.
"I have a question," I said.
"And I need you to answer it honestly."
"Anything."
"Are those the only messages?
The ones from February?"
Something moved behind his eyes.
It was fast.
Half a second.
But I had been married to this man for eighteen years and I knew every expression his face was capable of making.
"Yes," he said.
"That's everything."
He was lying.
I picked up my wine glass and walked to the living room.
"I'm going to watch something.
You should get some sleep."
He stood in the kitchen doorway.
"Are we okay?"
I didn't turn around.
"Good night, Mark."
I heard him go upstairs.
I sat in the dark living room with the television off and thought about the folder in the coat box.
The messages dated seven months ago.
The voicemails Linda had been frightened enough to record.
And I thought about what Linda had said.
*There's more.*
She had said it in the text.
Before we'd even met.
May you like
*There's more.*
She hadn't shown me everything.
