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My mother’s voice cuts me off from my contemplation.
“Whatever you’re thinking, Caleb, just remember this. You don’t owe that man a thing. Make your decision based on whatyouwant.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I mutter.
With that, she says her goodbyes and hangs up the phone while I’m left to overthink the entire thing through the drive.
When I get home, Briar’s car is still parked in the garage next to my empty spot. Dean’s car is nowhere to be seen, which gives me some sense of peace. At least she’s here without him.
Climbing out of the car, I loosen my tie as I step into the house.
“Briar,” I call from the kitchen. There’s no response. Maybe she’s sleeping upstairs.
Before jogging up the stairs to check on her, I stop at the laundry room. I tug off my jacket and hang it on the rack for dry cleaning. Then I unbutton my shirt and toss it in the hamper.
As I riffle through the pile of clothes on the counter, I pause when I realize there is nothing in here that I recognize. But it’s definitely men’s clothes, obvious in the black silk briefs I’m holding in my hand.
For a moment, I’m confused. Then I realize these must be Dean’s clothes.
He’s doing his laundry inourhouse? Has Briar been doing his laundry for him?
For far too long, I stare at the briefs in my hand, my fingers delicately rubbing the soft fabric, imagining how tight they must look on Dean’s ass and thick thighs.
Fuck, he’s getting in my head again. It’s been years since I even allowed myself to think of a man in his underwear. That was college behavior when locker rooms and communal showers started making me discover some things about myself.
So I get aroused by men sometimes. It doesn’t matter. I’m married to Briar, and I have never acted on those desires, so what difference does it make?
A car door closes in the distance and spooks me. For some reason, my reflexes make me shove the underwear into my pocket rather than put them back in the pile of clothes where they belong.
I leave the laundry room in a rush to see who’s outside. Going out through the back door, I watch as Dean and Briar stomp away from each other, him going to his apartment and her walking toward me.
She pauses at the sight of me standing in the backyard, home early from work.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“Where have you been?” I ask at the same time.
“We went to the museum in the city,” she replies, trying to move past me.
“Together?”
“It was just a museum, Caleb,” she snaps in return. Something is bothering her. I can tell. I know my wife enough to know her moods. And something has definitely set her off today.
Grabbing her arm, I turn her toward me. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” she replies with fervor.
“Why were you alone with him?” I ask. I find myself searching her features—her lips, her cheeks, her neck, her hair—as if signs that he’s touched her would be written on her skin.
She glares at me, and for a moment, it feels like she’s a stranger.
“What’s wrong, Caleb? You don’t trust me?”
The pain etched in her expression makes me release her arm.
“Of course I do, Briar. It’shimI don’t trust.”
“Right,” she replies with a slight eye roll. “Because I’m so trustworthy, right?”
