you left your sports bra in my locker. Tell your sad sack husband you’re working late tomorrow. We need to go over your ground game.”
Then came the chuckle.
Wet.
Private.
Cruel.
I had stared at Claire’s phone beside the fruit bowl.
Fourteen years.
That was a long time to know someone.
Long enough to recognize their footsteps in the hallway.
Their breathing in sleep.
The expression they made before lying.
Claire came downstairs wearing a white robe.
She stopped when she saw the phone in my hand.
For perhaps two seconds, neither of us spoke.
I expected denial.
Instead she sighed.
That hurt more.
Not panic.
Not
guilt.
Annoyance.
As though I had discovered something inconvenient.
“His name is Derek,” she said.
I put the phone down.
