I should have wondered why he spent so much time talking about my mother. I should have questioned the way his eyes would linger on her when she laughed, or how he always seemed to know exactly what wine to bring that would make her light up with delight. I was so in love, and love, I was beginning to learn, makes us spectacularly blind.
The first crack appeared three weeks before the wedding. I had stopped by my parents’ house after work to finalize seating arrangements, my arms full of RSVP cards and my laptop bag heavy with manuscripts. The house was unusually quiet when I let myself in through the front door.
“Mom? Dad?” I called, setting my bags down in the foyer.
“In the kitchen!” came my mother’s voice. But there was something different about it—breathless, almost flustered.
I found her standing at the sink, her back to me, washing dishes that looked suspiciously clean. Her dark hair, usually perfectly styled, was mussed, and when she turned around, her cheeks were flushed pink.
“Oh, Celeste, honey, I didn’t expect you so early.”
“It’s 6:30,” I said, checking my watch. “Same time I always come on Wednesdays.”
“Of course, of course.” She dried her hands on a dish towel, avoiding my eyes. “Your father’s at the church board meeting.”
Something felt off, but I couldn’t place what. The kitchen smelled different—not like my mother’s usual vanilla candles, but like something else. Something masculine and expensive.
“Was someone here?” I asked, settling at the kitchen island with the RSVP cards.
“What? Oh, no. Just me.” She turned back to the sink. “How was your day, darling?”
I almost let it go. Almost. But then I noticed something on the counter—a coffee mug that belonged to our good china set, the one we only used for special guests. It was still warm.
“Mom, whose mug is this?”
Her shoulders tensed.
“Mine, of course. You only drink tea in the evening. I—I was feeling tired, needed the caffeine.”
The lie sat between us like a live wire. My mother had never been a good liar. Her tells were as familiar to me as my own heartbeat: the way she avoided eye contact, the slight tremor in her voice, the compulsive dishwashing. But I loved her and I trusted her, so I chose to believe.
“Okay,” I said simply, opening the first RSVP card. “Let’s figure out these seating arrangements.”
The evening proceeded normally, but something had shifted. I caught my mother glancing at her phone constantly, her fingers tapping anxiously against the counter. When Nathaniel texted me around eight to say he was working late and would see me tomorrow, I noticed the way her entire body seemed to relax.
The second crack came a week later. Nathaniel had been distant, claiming work was overwhelming him. Our usual Thursday night dinners had been cancelled twice, and he’d missed our cake-tasting appointment with the bakery. When I called his office, his secretary said he’d left early.
I drove to his apartment in Georgetown, a sleek high-rise with a doorman who knew me by name. The elevator ride to the fifteenth floor felt eternal. I knocked on his door, then used my key when there was no answer.
“Nathaniel, are you okay?”
The apartment was dark, but his car was in the garage. I called his name again, walking through the space we’d already begun planning to redecorate after our honeymoon. The living room was empty, but there was a wine glass on the coffee table. Just one—but it had lipstick on the rim. A shade I didn’t recognize.
“Nathaniel?”
I tried his bedroom door, but it was locked. That was strange. He never locked his bedroom door.
“I’m here.”
His voice came through the wood, muffled and odd.
“I’m—I’m not feeling well, Celeste. Food poisoning, I think.”
“Let me take care of you.”
“No, no. I don’t want you to catch anything. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
I stood there for a long moment, staring at that locked door. In three years together, Nathaniel had never refused to let me help him when he was sick. He was the type of man who wanted to be babied when he had so much as a headache. But again, I chose trust over suspicion.
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