By breakfast, a woman from my old yoga class had shared it in a private neighborhood group. By noon, a man who posted about local gossip had put a cropped version on his page. I couldn't verify how many people had watched, and later I learned not to trust the inflated numbers strangers repeated. But numbers didn't matter when I went to the pharmacy on Monday and the cashier studied my face with the terrible concentration of someone deciding whether to acknowledge what she recognized. Cape May wasn't small enough for everyone to know everyone, especially in summer. It was small enough for news about a marriage to travel between cousins, coworkers, shop owners, and parents waiting to pick up their children from camp.
The comments were brutal. Some people mocked my dress or called me names they would never have used in front of me. Others praised Nolan for walking away instead of starting a fight. A few declared that one kiss meant nothing and that people ought to mind their own business. The worst posts treated my husband like a character created for strangers to cheer, not a person whose private pain had been turned into entertainment. I should have been upset about that. At first I was mostly upset that strangers had seen me looking so ugly.
I called in sick on Monday. When my supervisor, Opal Quinn, phoned to check on me, she sounded more concerned than curious. I was marketing manager for a group of small coastal inns, and my job required me to plan seasonal events, write campaigns, and convince visitors that ordinary weekends could become treasured memories. "Take the day," she told me. "But if you're hearing gossip, stay out of the comments. You won't find a solution there." I thanked her and immediately opened the comments again.
Nolan texted just after lunch. I'll stop by around six to get clothes and some things for work. I would prefer to come while you're out. If that doesn't work, let me know.
I read the message five times, irritated by its politeness. He had not called me sweetheart, not asked how I was doing, and not suggested we could fix this. I wanted him to be visibly miserable because it would prove I still had power over him. Instead he was asking permission to collect his socks, the laptop he used for work, and a few shirts. I replied, It's your home too. You don't need an appointment. He wrote, I'm trying to make this easier. I snapped back, For whom? I waited for an answer that never came.
At six, I was home. I had put on the blue blouse he liked and arranged takeout from his favorite seafood place on the kitchen counter as if a familiar dinner could fold time backward. When his car pulled up, I felt something close to relief. I told myself that his coming to the house meant he had not given up. Then he entered, and I realized how little I recognized the careful expression on his face.