“I’d like an Americano, please,” I say. I stumble on the last word. She doesn’t deserve niceties. Old habits die hard. She nods in confirmation and I can see in her expression, she knows I know. How strange to know that someone you’re so close to can have a life without you. I wonder what he’s told her about me. I shouldn’t wonder these things. At this point, it’s futile.

“How long have you been sleeping with my husband?” I ask. She knows the answer, of course. I can see by the way she chews at her lip. I’d be willing to bet she knows right down to the minute. Grant has that way about him. Even now, even after everything, I still get it. Five weeks, three days, and two hours? Longer?

Finally, she shrugs. She’s not very good at being direct. I bet my husband likes that.

I study her carefully, wondering what else he likes that I’ve missed. “You don’t think I deserve the dignity of an answer?”

This time she doesn’t just chew at her lip. She bites. Hard. It starts to bleed a little. She licks it away. “A few weeks.”

She hands me my coffee. “Can we talk?” I ask motioning toward a table.

“We’re kind of busy,” she says.

“Not that busy.” I made sure to come at the appropriate time. I didn’t want to be completely alone. But I didn’t want her to be too swamped, either.

She shrugs again. “Okay.” She goes into the back and returns with an older woman. The two of them speak briefly. I watch as the older woman takes over, and then I take a seat at an empty table in the corner. I wonder how many times Grant has been here. Did he tell her about the sandwich incident? Did they have a good laugh at my expense? Was it his way of making sure there was enough distance between his mistress and myself or was it just his usual shenanigans? I don’t know. Maybe I never will.

Izzy slides the chair out from the table and drags it across the floor. She wants me to think she’s doing me a favor.

I don’t waste any time. I’ve done enough of that. “My husband isn’t the man you think he is,” I pause to blow on my coffee. “But then, I don’t know what you think. I can only guess.”

She glances down at the table. She folds her hands and puts them in her lap. She unfolds them and rubs her palms on her knees. She’s fidgeting. But also bracing herself. She expects me to be angry, probably even to hurl my coffee in her face. I surprise her when I offer a smile instead.

“I know it’s wrong—I know what I’ve—what we’ve done is wrong. But we didn’t mean—”

Guilt is a powerful thing.

“I love him—” She just puts it out there just like that.

“Don’t—” I say, cutting her off. I place my coffee on the table. “Like I said. You don’t know him.”

She tilts her head. She wants a challenge, when she’s already entered the ring. “I know enough.”

I don’t respond. Not at first. I wait until she doesn’t think I’m going to. Meanwhile, I nurse my Americano and stare out the window. I could cry. But I won’t. Still, even dry-eyed, I need to make it uncomfortable for her. It’s the least I can do seeing the way she’s made my life suddenly uninhabitable.

I watch people outside coming and going. People oblivious to the fact that while they’re nonchalantly going about their simple business, I’m in here dealing with the worst kind. Betrayal. It’s hard to see it coming. Not because you trust the other person. But because you so desperately wanted to. I think about how Grant and I stopped here after seeing June. It seems like a lifetime ago. In reality it wasn’t. I think about posting a shot of my coffee on Instalook: It all started with an Americano. Or: Coffee with my husband’s mistress. It’s a new day.

Instead, I turn and meet her gaze. “I was like you once,” I confess. “Naive. Hopeful. A fool.”

She furrows her brow. “I’m not that green.”

I can’t help myself. I choke on nothing. Or maybe it’s not nothing. Maybe it’s the bitterness that’s been there all along creeping toward the surface. “No?” I hear myself say. “What did you think? That my husband is going to leave me for you?” I motion around the place. “For what? For a waitress in a coffee shop only slightly older than his own daughter?”

“He wants to be with me, Josie.” She says it matter of factly. Like it’s either true or she’s rehearsed it. Either way, my name sounds strange coming from her lips. Her eyes flicker. She looks like she wants to crawl under the table. Like she wants to hide, like she’s just spoken a secret into existence and has just realized she can’t reel it back. She drops her voice to match her eyes. “He’s scared, though,” she continues. “He’s afraid of you.”

My eyes grow wide. “Did Grant tell you this himself? Or is it another of your childish inferences?”

“No. I mean yes.” She backtracks. “He said you’d take everything.”

I laugh and it isn’t the laugh of a woman who has it all together. It’s maniacal, animalistic. “If you believe that—then I was right. You don’t know my husband at all.”

There’s a difference in thinking of doing something terrible and actually doing it. But as it turns out, it’s a very thin line indeed. What I’m still in the process of deciding is at which point you go from one side to the other. Is it possible to cross it before you realize? At which point can you still turn back?

I should have known coming to this side of town would be trouble. Of course, my husband should’ve known, too. He told me he had to work late. That’s what they always say. Now—not only do I have a deceptive husband— I have a gun on my hands. A gun I won’t know how to explain.

There are lots of scenarios in life that have rules. Playbooks. Like if this happens, you do that. If X, then Y and Z. But where’s the playbook for having a philandering husband and a loaded gun that isn’t yours? If I call the cops and tell them I was just almost robbed at gunpoint, then what? That’s the problem these days. Everyone’s trying to take what’s not theirs to take. Surely, they will want a statement. They will want to know why I was here. If I explain that I wanted to see them together, that I had to see it for myself, will they think I’m crazy? A scorned wife looking for attention? Because I have to be honest, that’s what I would think.

On the other hand, if they give me the benefit of the doubt, will they take me downtown for questioning? Will there be lineups? I have a lot on my plate right now and that sounds time consuming. Somehow I don’t think telling the cops I’m not sure how I’ll fit it all in is going to fly. Alternatively, what will I say to my husband when he realizes I was spying on him? What will I say when everyone wants to know why I was on this side of town? People want details. That’s the best part of any story. Certainly, it would be the punch line in this one.

My husband would know what to say. I’m not as good a liar as he is. That’s why I’m in this mess.

I text my husband. ‘Have you eaten?’

Of course, he’s eaten.

He texts back almost immediately. This confirms my suspicion. Whatever he feels for her, it’s more than just sex. Otherwise, he’d be in and out. My husband’s profession has trained him for this. Every minute spent is a dollar wasted somewhere else.

I read his response: Swamped here with charts. I’ll pick something up.

Chlamydia. Gonorrhea. Herpes. A bastard child. I turn the gun over in my hands. It’s heavier than I thought it would be. I reach over into the passenger seat and use my scarf to wipe my prints. I have no idea if this even works. I’ve seen it in the movies.

What are you going to do, Josie? Make your move. If this were a game of chess, and isn’t all of life, then I’d have to be patient. Chess matches are usually won via a mixture of patience and the ability to predict your opponent’s next move.

I need to know my husband’s next move. That’s why I came. But now that I’m here, I’m not sure I want to know. I picture the two of them together. I think of her in our home. A protective instinct ignites inside me.

My mind flashes to the lilies in the coffee shop. I could be sick. You’re a fool. Everyone knew. Everyone but you. Something in me shifts. I’ve covered up bruises for years. Bruises are easy to conceal. Another woman, this kind of betrayal, is different. It can’t be hidden with a little makeup. I will not be made a fool of. I have a decision to make.

Just then something shifts in my periphery. My husband comes bounding down the stairs. He isn’t supposed to look happy. But he does. He’s supposed to look paranoid, guilty, if nothing else. He’s light on his feet. I wonder if he’s making up his lie with each step toward our side of town. Or if he has it down already. I wonder what he’ll say when he sees my face. I wonder if he’ll pick a fight. Ask me to step on the scale. I wonder what offense he’ll come up with this time in order to shift the focus from his own transgressions. I wonder how many times he’s asked me for a blow job when he’s already been inside her. I pick up the gun, wrap it in my scarf and stuff it in my purse. It’s not like I can just dump it. That would be irresponsible. Plus, it’s nice to have a secret of my own.