Page 42 of The Husband I Left

I glare at him again, but he just grins back, unperturbed.

“You’re not invited.”

“I’m inviting myself. Just think of the state I found you in last night. Someone clearly needs to keep an eye on you. Now go get some clothes on and let’s go.”

“Fine, but I do all the talking.”

“I wouldn’t dream of interfering.”

I go upstairs. I pick my way across the bedroom, avoiding the jewelry, and stand in the closet for a moment, just breathing. Everything is where it should be. Suits in a row, shirts by color, ties on their rack. I let out a sigh of relief that at least she didn’t mess with anything in here.

I’m buttoning my shirt when I realize something is irritating the back of my neck. Reaching back, my hand brushes paper. It is, I realize, another note stuck in the collar of my shirt.

Nice shirt. Shame about the asshole wearing it.

I pick out a suit. There’s a folded note in the pockets of the pants.

You have the personality of wet cardboard.

I put the notes carefully on the shelf. I don’t check any of the other clothing. I’m afraid of what I’ll find. Instead, I grab my shoes. I slide one on and realize something is wrong. I look down and stare at the empty eyelets. Eight of them. All bare. I pull the shoe off and look inside, and there, tucked into the toe, is a small square of paper.

You have very large feet for such a small man.

I put the shoe down. I pick up the other one. The laces on this shoe are gone. There’s a note here too.

You still suck.

I go through the rack. Every pair. All of them. Laces gone, note inside.

Hope you trip

Right into a snake pit

You lied about liking my mother’s lasagna

And she knows it

Just checking

Still an asshole

There is even a pair of notes in a pair of running shoes that I rarely use.

I’ve seen you run. Why do you even own these?

Seriously, why?

The one that really gets me, though, is the note in one of the black dress shoes I wore to our wedding.

I faked it every time.

My ears get hot at that one and I have to sit down for a moment. She’s lying. I know she’s lying. I was there.

I’m fairly sure she’s lying.

I end up standing in the living room in a full suit and my socks while Leo arranges for shoelaces to be delivered and fails at not laughing.

“Forty minutes,” he says, hanging up. “If we’re lucky.”