Page 6 of Pretend You Love Me

“I’ll order some,” I say.

Harper once told me that cheating isn’t always the affair. Sometimes it’s watching someone slowly stop choosing you in real time.

I understood it when she said it.

I understand it differently now.

“I’m heading out in a bit,” Daniel says, rinsing his coffee mug and setting it in the sink. “Meeting about the Henderson account before lunch. Should be home by six.”

I nod, wiping my hands on a dish towel. “I’ve got the twins’ check-up at three,” I tell him. “The one with the new paediatrician.”

“Right,” he says, and there’s a pause, where he’s deciding whether to ask how the appointment works or just assume I’ve got it handled. He opts for the latter, reaching for his keys on the hook by the door. “Text me how it goes?”

“Will do,” I say, and then, because I’m committed to the pretence now, “Drive safe.”

He crosses the kitchen and kisses the top of my head, a casual, habitual gesture that makes my skin crawl, before heading for the door. “Love you,” he calls, already halfway down the hall.

“Love you too,” I answer. The words cause my stomach to twist harshly.

The front door closes, and the house settles into a quiet that happens when you’re the only adult in it. Milo has given up on his assault against the giraffe and is now making soft, experimental sounds at the ceiling. Maisie, on her play mat by the window, watches me with her steady, clinical gaze.

“Your father,” I tell her, my voice low in the empty kitchen, “is a spectacular asshole.”

She blinks at me, once, slowly, like she’s considering this information and finding it both plausible and slightly disappointing.

“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

The next two days pass in a series of carefully choreographed normal moments. I laugh at the right parts of Daniel’s stories. I hand him coffee in the mornings. I let him kiss my temple without visibly recoiling.

Now I watch myself from somewhere outside my body, cataloguing each smile and nod with the detached interest of an anthropologist studying a particularly complex mating ritual. Observe the female human discussing dishwasher settings. Observe how she does not flinch when the male human brushes against her while passing the salt.

On the third day, I’m standing in the doorway of the living room, watching Daniel sit on the floor with Milo propped against his knees.

It’s late afternoon, the light coming through the windows in long golden bars that catch the dust motes floating in the air. Milo is gripping Daniel’s finger with both fists, his tiny face lit with the particular delight he reserves for moments when he’s the absolute centre of attention. He’s babbling, a stream of nonsensical syllables interspersed with the occasional recognizable sound, and Daniel is grinning down at him, his free hand supporting Milo’s back with practiced ease.

“Yeah, mate, I know,” Daniel says, his voice soft with the particular tone he uses only with the babies. “Very important point you’re making. Groundbreaking stuff.”

Milo responds with a sound that’s half-laugh, half-shout, his whole body vibrating with excitement. He kicks his legs, nearly losing his balance, and Daniel’s hand moves to steady him without interrupting the flow of conversation.

“And then what happened?” Daniel prompts, leaning forward slightly. “After the giraffe committed that terrible crime against your personal dignity?”

Milo makes an indignant noise that sounds remarkably like “exactly!” and Daniel laughs, his whole face transforming with it. For a second, just a second, I’m caught by the sight of them, my husband, my son, the easy affection between them as natural as breathing. From the outside, it would look perfect. From the outside, you’d never guess that the man on the floor sending his son into fits of delighted laughter had been arranging hookups with other women.

My phone is in my hand. The screen recordings are in a locked folder I haven’t opened since the night I made them.

I stand in the doorway, watching my husband hold our son, and I do not move. I do not speak. I do not throw the phone at his head or pour boiling water on his shoes or say any of the forty-seven things currently queued in my imagination, waiting for their turn. I consider this a personal achievement. I am, I think, nearing god-like status in keeping my shit together.

Then I turn and walk to the kitchen.

The kettle is on the counter, still half-full from Daniel’s morning coffee. I fill it at the sink, watching the water swirl and rise, then set it on the base and press the button. The quiet hum fills the kitchen, a sound that matches the static in my head. I stand at the counter, one hand braced against the edge, and wait.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting a text from my mother-in-law about weekend plans or a notification from the baby app telling me the twins are due for their next round of shots. Instead, Liv’s name appears on the screen, along with a voice note, eighteen seconds long, the little red bar already counting down.

I press play.

“…absolutely zero concept of what a logo actually is or does,” Liv’s voice fills the kitchen, already three sentences into what is clearly a rant that started before she remembered to hit record. “Like, I’m sorry, Barbara, but a single graphic element cannot simultaneously communicate disruption AND warmth AND authority AND approachability AND ‘a bit coastal’, which, by the way, is not actually a brand attribute, it’s a vague geographical reference that makes me want to drown myself in the actual ocean.”

There’s a pause, the sound of Liv taking a deep breath, and then: