HE DOESN’T WRITE ANOTHER WORD. He sets his laptop on the rustic coffee table. It’s a mess as usual; scattered papers, pens, and an empty cup of coffee. “What’s up?” he asks. He knows that something’s not right. “Is it the kids?” he asks, concern etching his features.

I shake my head. “No, no, no. The kids are fine,” I tell him. “This is about us.”

He clears his throat and lies back on the loveseat. He doesn’t say a single word, almost as if he knows what’s coming.

“I…” I start, but the words are stuck in my throat. This is so much harder than I thought it would be. “I… I need to talk about something,” I start again. “About a week ago, I was looking for a pen…” My voice is shaking. “I was looking for a pen, and I couldn’t find one for the life of me. Anyway, I know you always have some in your satchel, and I don’t usually snoop in your stuff, I swear.”

His face falls. He knows where this is going.

“Anyway,” I go on. My voice has settled, and I’m really doing this. “Anyway, I saw a Valentine’s card and a Tiffany’s box. I assumed it was for me, but then…”

I don’t need to say more. It’s obvious where this conversation is going.

He’s speechless, and the expression on his face says it all. The last time I saw it was when he learned that his Nanna died of a heart attack at the age of eighty-six. He’s heart-broken.

“Tell me what’s going on,” I beg.

His gaze lingers on the wall in the distance, straight ahead. There is a collection of photos on the wall; him at various events, posing with famous authors and fans, and covers of his books sitting next to their NYT Bestseller listings. But I know he’s not seeing any of that.

“It just happened, Gabbie,” he says softly. “I’m so sorry.”

He still can’t look me in the eye.

“Who is she?” is the first question out of my mouth.

“Her name is Amanda.”

The name cuts me. Before, she was a nameless thing. Now she’s a woman with a pretty name.

“How did you meet her?” I ask.

“It was at the signing in London last spring,” he says. “A year ago.”

“Is she British?” I ask. If the woman has a sexy British accent, it’s game over. Seriously, how am I supposed to compete with that? I lost my Latino accent a long time ago.

He finally looks at me. “No, she’s from New York state,” he tells me. “I swear, Gabbie, I’ve never… I’ve never done this before.”

I don’t know why, but I believe him. Maybe it’s because I want to believe, maybe it’s because it’s the truth. His eyes seem so sincere, and his words ring so true.

“So is she one of your groupies?” I ask. I am not done with the inquisition — nowhere near done.

He shakes his head. “No, she’s an author. She writes psychological thrillers.”

“What’s her full name?” I demand.

“Gabbie…” he whispers. His eyes are pleading. “You don’t need to know…”

“What the fuck is her name?”

He swallows hard. “Amanda Tucker.”

What the…

The name is familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. I think hard. She’s an author, so perhaps we’ve met before, but I don’t recall. No face pops up. Maybe I’ve read one of her books… And then it hits me. I know her. I’ve read one of her novels. And I liked it. I have no idea what she looks like. A wave of nausea hits me hard, and I get the sudden urge to vomit all over his precious loveseat, his laptop, and him...

“Do you love her?” I ask softly. Such a cliché question, I’m disgusted with myself. I’m such a cliché — bored middle-aged plain housewife, betrayed by her handsome successful husband, cast aside for a younger more exciting woman.

He doesn’t answer fast enough. “Do you love her?” I ask again, but this time, I practically scream it. Do you fucking love her or not?

“It’s complicated,” he says.

I spring from the couch.

Wrong fucking answer.

He reaches for me, and grabs my wrist forcefully. “Sit down, Gabbie. I’m not done.”

I sit, flustered and unsettled.

“I don’t love her like I love you,” he explains. “You’re the love of my life, Gabbie. We’ve been together forever. You’re the mother of my children. You’re everything to me. But her…”

“But her, what?!”

“She’s under my skin,” he says.

He might as well have reached into my chest cavity, and ripped my heart out. I know exactly what he means… he’s crazy about her. I know because I’ve felt it myself. With Eli.

“So it’s not just sex?” I ask, hoping he will tell me it is.

He shakes his head again. And again, he doesn’t look me in the eye. “It’s a bit more… it’s not love, but I’m… pretty caught up.”

My heart sinks. He’s being so honest, so open with me. I’m not surprised. He’s always been like this — he wears his emotions on his sleeve. This secret must have been killing him. I can almost see the relief on his face. This is why he’s not been himself lately, why he’s been acting so strange. I should have known.

“So what you’re saying is that you’re very attracted to her, and you have feelings for her?” I ask, still not sure what this woman means to him.

“Yes, I’m attracted to her, but do I love her? I do, sometimes, and I also hate her. I can’t explain it…”

“You hate her and you’re sleeping with her?!” I say, flabbergasted. It’s not so much a question as it is a statement. This, I don’t quite get.

He stares at the floor, at the green area rug I got him a few years back. “She plays with me,” he says, “she pushes me away. She says we can’t do this, and I agree. But then she seeks me out again, tries to seduce me, sends me pictures…”

“Wow,” I say, speechless. I get it now. They must have this whole love-hate thing going on, and the sex must be off-the-charts. I hate this fucking woman. She gets off on this, I’m sure. She doesn’t give a shit if he’s married with kids. I fucking hate her. I don’t even hate John anymore, just her.

John is quiet, and I’m suddenly livid.

“This woman sounds like a real winner,” I deadpan. “I hope the sex was worth it because she’s completely ruined your life.” My voice cracks, and my words are broken. “I... h-hope the sex was the best you’ve ever had because now you’ll be losing your wife over it.”

He falls to his knees and sinks into me. He lays his head on my lap and clings to me. He’s crying now. “No, Gabbie. You can’t do this.”

“I’m not doing anything,” I say. “You’ve done this to yourself, John.”

He’s completely broken when he lifts his gaze to mine. “I don’t think I really love her, Gabbie. You’re my only one. I don’t want to break up over this.”

“Well, you should have thought about that before you stuck your dick in that whore.” I push him away, and struggle out of his hold. I dash out of the room, and he chases me up the stairs. But he doesn’t catch me. I slam the bedroom door in his face, and lock it.

“Gabbie, c’mon,” he whines and punches the door.

“Settle down,” I scoff. “You’ll wake the kids.”

“I’ll end it,” he says quietly.

I don’t respond, and a few long seconds later, I hear the scuffle of his feet as he trudges down the stairs.

I exhale a breath of air as I lie down on our bed. It’s neatly made, as always. My gaze travels across our bedroom, dances over the antique armoire we got at that auction, and the expensive bedroom set we bought five years ago, the perfectly coordinated throw pillows, and the framed artwork over the bed, specifically created for this room — everything is so perfect. Looking in from the outside, our home, our life is the picture of perfection.

I swore that I would give him a second chance if he was honest with me. And he was… too honest, some might say. He could have told me it was just sex — I would have never known any better. It was more than sex, but perhaps not love. Something complicated, in the middle. She was excitement, she was a challenge. She was a flash of color… temptation.

I get it. He’s a man. And she’s a whore. I get the attraction. I’m dying of curiosity. A little voice in my head is screaming as I reach for my phone. Don’t do it, Gabbie! Don’t do it! it screams, but of course, I ignore it.