Page 15 of Cruel Lies

I haven't made it in eight months.

I haven't worn this sundress in eight months, either. It's a Macy's sale rack acquisition, fifteen bucks plus tax, but you'd think it was La Perla lingerie based on how it used to turn Todd downright feral when I wore it. Back in the day, he would start drooling like one of Pavlov's dogs and before you know it, we'dbe horizontal on the bed, or the couch, or the kitchen floor. At least one of our two children can trace their conception back to this dress.

But last time I wore it, Todd took one look at me, at how the fabric was a little more snug across my hips than it used to be, and he wrinkled his nose and left to go play golf. Into the closet it went.

… Until tonight.

I check the clock on the stove. 6:49 P.M. His location pin has him crawling up the West Side, which means I've got maybe half an hour before he's home. The cutlets are resting under foil and the marsala is reducing into a dark, glossy sauce. It smells incredible, which pisses me off, because he is the last man on this earth who deserves to put it in his stupid mouth.

But that's not the point.

The point is to lull him into a false sense of security. I want him to think everything is right in his world, so that he keeps on doing his nasty business. In the meantime, I'm going to gather all the evidence I need.

And then I'm going to skewer him with it.

I look around to make sure everything is right. The candles are lit, the floors have been vacuumed and mopped, the counters have been Windexed and wiped down, the table set, the fridge neatly decorated with the crayon drawings Isabella did during afterschool care today. The kids are upstairs putting the finishing touches on their homework.

It's a domestic wonderland and I'm Queen Martha freaking Stewart at the center of it.

I hear his key in the door at 7:14.

Showtime, Cali.

"Babe? Is that you?" His voice carries down the hall, confused. I hear him sniff at the marsala scent in the air. "What's all this?"

I come around the island wiping my hands on a dish towel, beaming from ear to ear. "You're home!" I cross the kitchen and throw my arms around his neck before he can clock anything wrong in my face. I would rather hug a literal grizzly bear, but appearances are essential right now, so I suck it up. "I missed you."

"Whoa." He pats my back, surprised, then settles his hands at my waist in a way that makes my skin try to crawl off my bones and flee the building. "Thought you weren't back 'til Sunday?"

I pull back and look up at him. "I couldn't stay," I explain in a simpering voice. "I was sitting in that hotel room at like two in the morning, and I just missed you and the kids so much. So I changed my flight."

"You bailed on the conference?"

"It just didn't seem important anymore." I let my shoulders drop, a little sheepish, a little soft. "Todd, can I tell you something? And you can't say I told you so."

He grins. He loves being told he was right about things. It's one of his four core personality traits, along with talking about his fantasy football league, ordering the most expensive thing on any menu to prove he can, and apparently, sleeping with my best friend.

"I'm sitting there pitching to these investors," I go on, "and I just kept thinking,What am I doing?Chasing this company whileI'm three thousand miles from my babies? Maybe…" I take a shuddering breath. "Maybe entrepreneurship just isn't for me. Maybe I'm not cut out for it."

"Cal—"

"Family's more important," I interrupt. "Don't you agree? There's nothing more important in the whole entire world than the partner you've exchanged vows with and the lives you've brought into this world together." I look up at him with huge, sincere eyes. "That shouldalwayscome first. Don't you agree?"

I worry for a moment that I'm laying it on thick. Is it too much?

But no. Todd Bradshaw has never read anything in his life, least of all a subtext.

"That's, uh… Yeah," he says gruffly. "That's really mature of you, babe. I always said you spread yourself too thin."

"You did say that." I nod like a bobblehead."And, um. There's one more thing." I twist the dish towel in my hands. "I've been thinking about what you've been saying. About maybe seeing someone."

His eyebrows go up. "Someone? As in?—"

"A therapist. You've been right that I've been—" I let it wobble, just slightly, the voice of a woman admitting a humiliating truth. "I've been anxious. Paranoid, almost. And I think it's affecting us. So I called a practice in the city today. They had an opening for an intake, and the doctor recommended I come a few times a week to start. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturday mornings."

It takes a second, but when Todd reaches the conclusion that I knew he'd reach, his smile is undimmable.

Because what I have just handed him, gift-wrapped with a bow, is three blocks of guaranteed time per week when his anxious, broken, finally-getting-help wife will be predictably out of the house and across town.