A television across the room played a muted morning news broadcast.
A vending machine hummed.
Somewhere down the hall, a baby started crying.
Ethan whispered, “It wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Lauren almost smiled.
Not because it was funny.
Because unfaithful people always seemed to believe accidents required repeated hotel reservations.
“How long?”
He swallowed.
“About two months.”
Lauren had expected six.
The answer should have felt better.
It didn’t.
“Did you sleep with her in our house?”
“No.”
“Did you take her to the lake property?”
“No.”
“Did you use joint accounts?”
“No.”
“Did you discuss my pregnancy with her?”
A pause.
Too long.
Lauren noticed.
“What did you tell her?”
“Lauren—”
“What did you tell her about our daughter?”
“Nothing private.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Ethan leaned forward.
“I told her you were pregnant. She already knew that. Everybody knows that.”
Lauren’s wedding had been featured in Chicago Magazine.
