Page 26 of Unfaithful

For a moment there I thought he was going to say,But I couldn’t have done it without you.

I pull my lips wide into an approximation of a smile.

“She’s amazing,” he continues, in the tone of someone talking to himself, shaking his head in awe at how wonderful she is. “It looks like she might have a shot at sellingThe Nestto the contemporary art museum for their permanent collection. Nothing concrete yet”—he holds crossed fingers—“but they’re considering it in their current acquisition round.” He closes his eyes and tilts his face to the ceiling. “God, that would be so amazing.” Then he turns to me and I guess he realizes I am here because he says, “Hey, you should talk to her, you’d really like her. She’s massively talented.” And I stand there thinking,Am I ever going to wake up from this nightmare? What if I jumped in front of a bus—would anyone even notice I was missing?

That night, when Luis comes to bed, I pretend to be asleep. He settles in with his back to me and within minutes he’s snoring. I lean close to his ear and whisper, “You snore, did you know that?” But he doesn’t move. I push the covers off me very slowly, swing my legs out of the bed and tiptoe over to his side. His cellphone is on the side table and I carefully pick it up. I try a code—not for the first time, that should go without saying. I’ve tried them all. Kids’ birthdays, wedding anniversary, the day we met—even though I’m pretty sure he has no idea when that was. I stare at it as Luis stirs and rolls onto his back, one arm flung over the edge of the bed.

Gently, softly, I lift his hand and press his thumb over the button, thanking my lucky stars he had refused to upgrade his iPhone.The environment, Anna!says the man who makes sculptures out of plastic.Ah, but it’s recycled! See?

The screen lights up and shudders.

Try again

I press his thumb harder this time. His eyes blink open.

“What are you doing?”

“You were having a nightmare,” I whisper. “Go back to sleep.”

He groans, rolls over.

I’m in.

I miss you.

It’s right there, in black and white. And he has a nickname for her.Belle.

I love you so much.

I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this to my children.

Babe, please don’t shut me out. We’ll work it out, I promise.

I can’t stop thinking about you.

And I can’t stop crying. I’m sitting at the table in the kitchen, big snotty sobs erupting and dribbling down my chin, sobs so loud I have to keep my hand over my mouth so as not to wake up the neighborhood.

I scroll back quickly. The first one I find is dated April, three months ago.

I’m so sorry, it should never have happened.

I miss you so much.

I miss you too, Belle,

Do you love her?

Don’t.

He’s going to leave me. She’s going to make him, you can see that a mile off, the way she’s pulling at him like a drug. All I can think about are my children. How would they cope if we split up? And, immediately, the next logical thought pops into my head.

Who will they choose?

There was a time when they were little and I was working all the time, when they became bonded to Luis. He was caring for them just about full time so I could work. I missed my children so much it hurt, but it seemed the right thing to do while Luis got on with his art practice. I liked supporting him. I was proud of him. But I can still remember with a flash of pain when Mateo fell off his bike in the park and, clutching a bleeding knee, wailed from the top of his lungs,Dadddddyyyyy!!!And yet I was right there, mere feet away. But Luis had already scooped him up and sat him on his lap on a bench, in full view of the other parents. They looked at me with pitying faces while Luis pretended to operate (scalpel? electric saw?), carefully putting a plaster with a picture of a ninja turtle on it (where did they come from? Did he carry them in his back pocket?). He kissed it better and sent him on his way. I resolved right there and then to spend a lot more time with the children. And I did. They needed me, and I needed them. I think they were puzzled at first by my insistence that I’d soothe them even when they weren’t that sad, and mop their brow when they weren’t that sick. I read stories whether they were tired or not and cooked hot meals that would make a child nutritionist want to quit their job and join the circus.

I go back through the texts, wailing into my palm. Her last text from last night:

I love you so much I could burst. Congratulations, my love.

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