“Not my private conversations.”
I stared at her.
“You told Adrian we were separated.”
Her face changed.
Just for a second.
Then the defenses came down again.
“I said emotionally separated.”
“You told him we slept in different rooms.”
She shrugged. “We practically do.”
“We slept in the same bed last night.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No. I don’t.”
She put the letter down.
“You’ve been checked out for months.”
“Then why did you tell me I was imagining problems every time I asked?”
“Because you always make everything bigger than it is.”
“Were you sleeping with Adrian?”
She froze.
There it was.
Not guilt.
Calculation.
Her eyes moved toward the hallway, then back to me, as though searching for the version of the answer that would cost the least.
“Why are you asking questions you’ve already decided the answers to?”
“That is not an answer.”
“You invaded my privacy.”
“That is not an answer either.”
“You went through my bank information.”
“I reviewed our joint account.”
“You called a man from my workplace.”
“I called a man who told me he has been in a romantic relationship with my wife for five months.”
Her mouth tightened.
“He had no right to tell you anything.”
That was the closest thing to a confession she had offered.
I felt something settle inside me.
Not peace.
Finality.
“So yes,” I said.
Vanessa’s eyes narrowed.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Stand there acting morally superior.”
“I asked one question.”
“You’ve neglected me for a year.”
“Were you sleeping with Adrian?”
“You work constantly.”
“Were you sleeping with Adrian?”
“You stopped seeing me.”
“Were you sleeping with Adrian?”
She slammed her purse onto the counter.
“Yes.”
The word bounced off the kitchen tile.
“Yes. Fine. Yes.”
Neither of us spoke.
She seemed almost relieved to have said it.