The surgery went fine. I didn't. A nurse wheeled me back to my room, got me settled, and left. I lay in bed shivering, unable to speak.
At eight that evening, Clay showed up.
The second he pushed the door open, I knew where he'd been.
He'd changed his clothes. He'd left the house that morning in a blue dress shirt. Now he was wearing a white T-shirt. His hair was freshly washed too—I could smell the shampoo from across the room.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, the meeting this afternoon was really important, my phone was on silent, I didn't hear it—" He walked toward me, reaching for my hand.
I looked at him. "Where were you today?"
"The meeting, I told you, that project—"
"Clay."
"You're not wearing the same clothes you left in."
He froze.
"You changed. Your hair's wet." I held his gaze. "Where were you?"
He said nothing.
"Today's her birthday, isn't it?"
The color drained from his face.
"You remembered her birthday. You made sure you were there to celebrate it with her. And while I was lying on an operating table, your phone was off." My voice was steady. Perfectly steady. Like I was talking about someone else's life. "Clay. We're done."
"Lydia, just listen to me—"
"Get out."