Chapter 9

“I thought we could start the year on a clean page,” he said, a little shy.

I let him pour me sparkling cider.

I let him tell me about a podcast he had been listening to.

We ate almost the entire meal.

And with a distant sorrow, I noticed he was genuinely trying to be good company.

As if he believed the right atmosphere could substitute for the right facts.

At eleven-thirty, after we pushed aside the plates, I took a folded sheet of paper from my bag and placed it between the candles.

“Sit down,” I said, though he was already sitting.

He unfolded it.

I watched his eyes move across the page.

I saw the exact second he understood.

His breath stopped.

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

“Emily—”

“That’s the transfer from the twenty-eighth,” I said. “Eighteen thousand five hundred dollars, to an account in your name only. And two nights ago, I asked you directly whether there was anything about our money you wanted to tell me. You said no.”

“I was going to tell you.”

“When?”

“After—”

He stopped.

“After what? After you saw which way I was going?”

He put his face in his hands.

His words came muffled and fast.

“When you told me you’d seen a lawyer, I panicked. I read online about what happens in divorces, and people take everything, and I thought if I just put some of it somewhere safe—”

“I hadn’t asked for anything, Daniel.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“You could have asked.”

Somewhere outside, a television roared.

Muffled voices began counting backward.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

“I hired a lawyer to understand my rights,” I said over the countdown. “You hired panic. Do you see the difference?”

Seven.

Six.

“I see it,” he whispered.

Five.

Four.

“Then I need you to answer one question, and I need it to be the truth, even if it’s ugly.”

I leaned forward.

“Why? Not the mall. Not the hotel. Why did a man who said he’d give me everything decide to slip out the back of his own marriage?”

Three.

Two.

He didn’t answer until the room behind us erupted in cheers and the first fireworks cracked above the rooftops, painting the window gold and red.

Then, in that flickering light, my husband began to cry.

“In April,” he said, “they gave the Director of Finance job to Kevin Marsh. He’s thirty-four. I’ve been there nine years. I told you it was fine, that they were restructuring, and you believed me, and I let you.”

He wiped his face with the heel of his hand.

“I felt like a failure, Emily. I felt invisible. And you were so capable, so steady, you handled everything, and I couldn’t stand for you to see me falter. Then Vanessa, she looked at me like I was still someone who had won something.”