There were a hundred possible answers. I could have told him I was sorry. I could have said I had been drinking more than I should, though I had barely finished a glass of wine. I could have admitted that Julian and I had been talking privately for months and that I had allowed those conversations to become something I would have hated to find on Nolan's phone. Instead, with every member of my family watching, I made my husband's hurt into a problem of his own making.
I laughed. I rolled my eyes and said, "It was just one kiss. File for divorce if you want."
Nolan looked at me for a long time. He didn't look at Julian, although Julian shifted beside me as if preparing himself for a confrontation. He simply stared at the woman he had married and seemed to understand something he had been trying not to understand for a very long time. Then he laid the tongs on the side of the grill, turned the burner off, and set my uncle's unfinished plate on the table. He went inside through the kitchen door. A minute later I heard the front door shut.
He had not slammed it. That bothered me more than a slammed door would have, though I refused to admit it. I wanted an argument I could call an overreaction, a raised voice I could blame for the uncomfortable looks from my relatives. If he had thrown a drink or challenged Julian to a fight, I would have had a familiar story to tell about an insecure husband. Nolan gave me nothing of the sort. He left me standing in a blue sundress between the man I had kissed and the family members who now knew I was capable of it.
My mother recovered first, because for years she had treated unpleasantness like something that could be managed by serving food. "The corn's getting cold," she announced, in a voice that sounded ridiculous even to me. No one moved. Tessa put the lemonade pitcher down and followed Nolan into the house, but returned within moments. She stared directly at me. "He's gone," she said. I answered, "He'll cool off," as though my husband were a pot left too long on the stove.
Julian touched my elbow. "You okay, Bree?" he asked. His concern was flattering and infuriating in equal measure, because he had not looked remotely worried while Nolan stood there. I pulled my arm away. My father set the tray on the table and asked Julian to leave. He did it softly, without a threat. Julian opened his mouth, glanced around the silent backyard, and decided that the polished apology he was about to produce would not help him. He picked up his sunglasses and went through the side gate.
My father had spent thirty-eight years running a small marine supply shop near the harbor before retiring, and I had watched him deal with customers who cursed, lied, and tried to get more than they paid for. He was a patient man, but I had never mistaken