My skin feels cold. It’s an odd sensation that travels across my arms and I’d like to blame it on the alcohol, but I’ve felt it all day. Before the drinks came easier and easier. For days, really, I’ve been feeling this weird sense of not quite being in my own body. Maybe even weeks, but I’ve been ignoring the signs and whispers, pretending like they weren’t real.

But this sickness won’t leave me, now that I can’t deny it.

Ever since I let the words slip through my lips.

I hate you.

You’re a fucking liar.

I want a divorce.

The tears prick my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. Instead a shuddering breath leaves my lips and I lift my glass up, downing the remaining wine. It’s too sweet for being so dark.

The glass nearly tips as I set it down quickly to wipe under my eyes. I don’t want him to see me cry; I won’t let him. But the creak at the top of the stairs was a false alarm. I don’t hear the heavy sound of him coming down the steps to our townhouse. Instead I’m still alone on the first floor dining room, waiting for him to leave.

The thick, dark drapes behind me are pulled shut but even they can’t completely drown out the night sounds of busy New York City outside. There’s always a bit that travels through. It used to bother me when I moved here initially, but now it’s soothing. It calms me as I look past the open room toward the empty stairwell.

I shouldn’t be drunk, sitting at the head of the dining room table when I’m supposed to be preparing to meet with a potential client. I’m damn good at what I do, one of the top agents in New York City, but tonight, I don’t care.

I shouldn’t have closed my laptop and logged off of all social media when I have promotions and advertisements running around the clock for these launches.

I shouldn’t be doing a lot of things.

But here I am, and I refuse to do anything but watch the stairs and wait for him to leave.

I listen carefully as I pour the last of the wine from the bottle into the glass. He’s packing, like he always does, but this time it’s so much different. He’s traveling for work, but when he leaves from his rendezvous in London, he’s not coming back here.

“He better not,” I mutter beneath my breath at the thought.

I lift the glass back to my lips, the dark cabernet tasting sweeter and sweeter with each sip, lulling me into a languor where the memory of yesterday fades.

Where the article doesn’t exist. Where the admission of an affair can fall on deaf ears. The picture itself was innocent. But Evan doesn’t have a single explanation for me. He can’t make clear to me why he’s lying, why he’s stuttering over his words to come up with a justification.

What hurts the most is the look in his eyes. It’s his boss’ wife, in the middle of a vicious divorce. And he was with her at 3 in the morning in her hotel lobby.

There’s only one explanation for that. Even he can’t come up with a reason, although he still denies it. It’s a slap in my face. And I’m done pretending like I can forgive him for this.

I suck in a long, deep breath, pushing the phone away as it beeps again with a message from a friend and I lean back in my chair. I don’t want to hear it. I cover my eyes with my hands, suddenly feeling hot. Too hot.

They keep asking me the same things, but with different words.

Are you alright? - Maddie

Is it true? - Julia

So you finally went through with it? – Suzette

Messages from my friends hit my phone one by one, each of them making it vibrate on the table throughout the day.

It takes everything in me to face them, as if they were really here asking me all these questions in person. I don’t have answers to give them, none that I want to say out loud anyway. I’m not pushing my husband away because I want to. I’m only doing it because I have to and I don’t have the resolve to speak that confession. Even I’m disappointed in myself.

My friends want what’s best for me. They want to help me and I know that’s the truth, but it doesn’t keep me from being angry at the phone as it goes off again.

Just leave me alone. Everyone get out of my life, my marriage. It wasn’t for them to see. It’s not for them to judge. Like every other fucking gossip column in New York City. It’s not the first time our marriage was mentioned in the papers, but I pray it’ll be the last.

My knuckles turn white as I grip the phone with the intent on throwing it, silencing it and letting it smack against the wall, but I don’t. It’s the sound of Evan’s boots rhythmically hitting each step as he walks down the stairs that forces me to compose myself.

I stare at the small strip of red on the silence button as I flip the switch off on my phone and ignore the texts and calls, squaring my shoulders as I attempt to pull myself together.

I haven’t answered a single one since this morning when Page Six came out with the article about our separation. It’s funny how I only uttered the words two nights ago, yet it’s already on social media, circulating gossip columns. I wonder if he wanted this. If that was Evan’s way of finally pushing his workaholic wife to the brink of divorce.

My gaze morphs into a glare as he comes into view, but it doesn’t stay long. My skin is suddenly feeling hotter, but in a way that’s joined with desire. I can just imagine how his rough stubble would feel against my palm and how his lips would taste as he leans down to kiss me goodbye. It’s funny how the goodbye kisses are the ones I value most, but I won’t let him kiss me before he leaves this time.

Even if he is only wearing a pair of faded jeans and a plain white t-shirt, he’s still devilishly handsome. It’s his muscular physique and tanned, tattooed skin that let him get away with a classic bad boy look regardless of what he has on. My heart beats slower and slower as the seconds pass between us; it’s calming just to look at him. That’s how he got me in the beginning. The desire and attraction I feel are undeniable.

He’s the first to break the gaze as he runs his fingers through his dark brown hair and lets out an uneasy sigh. And my lips curl into a sarcastic smile, mocking both me and my thoughts. I’m not the only one to fall for his charm and allure, but I should have already learned my lesson. My fingers slip down the thin stem of the wineglass as I smile weakly and force the sting in my eyes to go away, pretending I’m not going to cry, pretending that I’ve made my decision final. Like I don’t already regret it.

“I have to go,” he says after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

My blood rushes and I try to swallow the lump in my throat. I focus on the wine, the dark red liquid pooling into the base of the glass. I try to swirl it, but it doesn’t move, there’s so little left.

“Is she going to be there?” I ask him, staring straight ahead at a black and white photo of the two of us taken years ago on vacation in Mexico. I look at my genuine smile and how he has his arm wrapped possessively around me as he answers. I hate that I even bothered to ask. It’s my insecurity, my hate, my envy even.

“No, she’s not. And I already told you it doesn’t matter.” Any trace of a smile or even of disinterest leaves me. I can’t hide what it does to me, what his lie has done to me.

My elbow rests on the table as I sit my chin in my hand and try to cover up how much it hurts. To keep it from him just like he’s keeping the truth from me. I speak low and stare straight ahead. “You told me it’s not true, but you didn’t deny it to the press,” I tell him and finally look him in the eyes. “You didn’t deny it to anyone but me, and I know you’re lying.” My words crack at the end and I have to tear my eyes away.

Everyone told me and warned me five years ago when I first started seeing him. I knew what I was doing when I first said yes to him, when I gave myself to him and let myself fall for someone like him. I’m a fool.

“I told you, it’s not what it looks like,” he says softly, like he’s afraid to say the words louder.

“Then why not tell them?” I ask him in a wounded voice. “Why let the world believe you’ve cheated on me? What could you possibly gain?” Each question gets louder as the words rush out of my mouth. I’m ashamed of how much passion there is in my voice. How much pain is on display.

I know why he doesn’t deny it to them, and it’s because it’s true. Years of just the two of us have told me who he is and I know he’s not a liar, but he’s lying to me now. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. “It’s been weeks, hasn’t it?” I force the words out. Last night I couldn’t talk without screaming. Without slamming my fists into the table, making it shake and breaking a glass of water that tipped and shattered on the hardwood floors.

I reached my breaking point when he looked me in the eye and told me there was nothing to that picture. I won’t listen when he lies; not when he does such a horrific job of it.

“Stop it, Kat,” Evan says firmly, and his voice is harsh and unforgiving, like I’m the one in the wrong.

“Oh I see,” I tell him, raising a brow and feeling that sick smile tug at my lips. “You cheat, you lie, but I should be quiet and give you a kiss on the way out to go back to her?”

“Don’t do this,” he says with a rawness that makes my heart clench.

“Then tell me what happened. I know something did.” For weeks he’s been distant, cold toward me even.

A moment passes and I lose my composure again, bared to him in every way as I wait for an answer. But I don’t get the one thing I need. The truth. Or a believable lie.

“I have to go,” he says and slings the black duffle bag over his shoulder, gripping the suitcase with his other hand. “I love you.”

He says the words without looking at me.

“If you don’t tell me the truth,” I speak lowly as I stare at the table, pushing each word out and feeling them slice open the cut in my heart that much deeper, “then don’t bother coming back.” My throat tightens and my lungs refuse to fill as silence is all that answers me.

He leaves without attempting to kiss me or coming close to me in the least. His strides don’t break in cadence until the heavy walnut front door opens and closes, leaving me with nothing but the tortured sob that’s desperate to come up and the faint sounds of the city life filling the empty space once again.

My hands tremble as I close my eyes and try to calm down.

If he really loved me, he wouldn’t have let it come to this.

If he loved me, he’d tell me the truth.

Secrets break up marriages.

I keep telling myself that he’s to blame, but as a cry rips up my throat and I bring my knees into my chest, the heels of my feet resting on the seat of the chair, I replay the last few years and I know I’m at fault. Deep down, I know. I bury my face in my knees and rock slightly, feeling pathetic as I break down yet again.

If I was him, I’d have cheated on me too.

He says he didn’t. He swears it’s a lie.

But he doesn’t explain it. He can’t even look me in the eye.

I did this to myself. I should’ve known better.