Page 55 of The Friend Request

‘I need to tell you something,’ I say. ‘And I need you to let me get through all of it before you say anything, because if you stop me, I won’t be able to start again.’

Alex’s face changes. His jaw tightens, his shoulders draw back half an inch. He nods once, folds his hands together, and waits.

So I tell him.

I start with the friend request, not looking at his face because I can’t afford to, not yet. I tell him that Ross sent me a message on Facebook, weeks ago, out of nowhere, that I accepted it and we exchanged messages. I tell him I didn’t mention it because it felt harmless at first – just an old school friend getting in touch, the way people do – and by the time it stopped feeling harmless I’d already left it too long to bring up without it seeming like I’d been hiding something.

‘Which I was,’ I say. ‘I know that. I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t.’

Alex doesn’t move. He’s watching me with that still expression he gets, the one I used to find reassuring because it meant he was listening properly, and which now makes my skin prickle because I can’t tell what’s building behind it.

I tell him about the dinner while watching his hands. His knuckles don’t change colour, not yet, but his thumbs press together hard enough to whiten the nails. I tell him I met Ross in Bristol, at a restaurant, and that I told myself it was just a conversation between old friends who hadn’t seen each other in years. I tell him I know how that sounds. I tell him it sounds exactly as bad as it is.

Then I tell him about the kiss.

I say it quickly, like ripping a plaster off, because if I slow down, the words will stick in my throat and I’ll lose my nerve. ‘He kissed me. Outside the restaurant. I didn’t start it, and I didn’t want it, and I pulled away, but it happened. I should have told you that night, and I didn’t.’

The room goes very quiet. The fridge hums in the kitchen, and the clock ticks on the mantelpiece. I can hear Alex breathing – slow, controlled, through his nose.

I keep going because if I stop now, I’ll never finish.

I tell him about the photo, taking my phone from my pocket and putting it on the cushion between us, face down. I say that three days ago I received an explicit image from an unknown number, followed by messages. I tell him what the messages said. Not all of it – I can’t bring myself to repeat it word for word – but enough.

Alex’s face goes dark. A colour deeper than red, something that starts at his collar and climbs his neck in patches and settles along his jawline like a stain. His breathing hasn’t changed. His hands are still folded. But I’ve been married to this man for years, and I know what that stillness means. It means he’s holding the door shut.

I tell him about the birthday party, about Ross in our house, in our living room, drinking our wine and talking to our daughter. And that I didn’t stop it because I was too afraid of what stopping it would look like. I tell him about the kitchen – the door swinging shut, Ross following me in, the things he said about the library and the kiss and what it meant. I tell him Ross put his hand on my wrist and held it there while Alex was in the next room.

That’s when the colour comes. Alex’s face flushes from the jaw upwards, a deep, hot red that reaches his temples. His hands unfold and refold, his knuckles go white. A vein stands out on the side of his neck that I’ve only ever seen once before, years ago, when a man at a pub said something foul to me on a night out and Alex had to be walked away by two of his friends.

But he doesn’t speak. He promised he’d let me finish, and he’s keeping that promise, even though I can see what it’s costing him – the rigidity in his shoulders, the way his jaw is working, the controlled evenness of his breathing that tells me he is counting, somewhere inside his head, measuring each breath the way you’d measure a dose of something dangerous.

‘That’s everything,’ I say. ‘That’s all of it.’

The silence that follows is the worst sound I’ve ever heard.

Alex sits there. He stares at the coffee table. He picks up the remote control from the arm of the sofa and puts it down on the table instead, a tiny, pointless act of order. Then he puts both hands on his knees and presses down as if he’s stopping himself from standing.

‘How long?’ he says. His voice is completely level, like a spirit measure with the bubble dead centre. ‘From the first message to now. How long?’

I tell him. He gives a single, small nod that’s more like a flinch.

‘And you didn’t—’ He stops. Starts again. ‘At any point. During any of this. You didn’t think I should know.’

‘I wanted to tell you.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘No.’

‘You went to dinner with him. You let him kiss you. And you stood in our kitchen and let him put his hands on you, and you didn’t tell me any of it.’

Every word is precise. He’s not shouting. Alex never shouts. He delivers sentences like documents – clean, exact, impossible to misread. And each one hits me with a thud that I deserve.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I know, and I’m sorry. I was afraid of what it would do.’

‘What it would do to who?’

I don’t answer that, because the honest answer is to me, and I think we both know it.