But as my car drove further away, he blinked and shook his head.
"Must be an illusion," he muttered. "Why would my wife be in a luxury car like that?"
Still, unease lingered. A prick of conscience about leaving me home alone. He pulled out his phone, turned it back on, and dialed my number.
My phone lit up. The contact name—Hubby—felt like a cruel joke.
I stared at it, finding the irony unbearable. I didn't answer. One tap. Blocked. Then I blocked him on every platform we shared.
Now he knows how to be anxious? What was he doing five minutes ago?
As the car moved through the city, my mind spiraled back. When did Rhys start looking at Emily like that?
Was it the day she moved in? She'd knocked on our door to borrow tools. Rhys had stared at her face, completely entranced, only snapping out of it when I nudged him. He'd smiled awkwardly and scratched the back of his head.
Was it the mornings he took out the trash? I realized now he'd started taking Emily's too.
Or when he cooked dinner? He would "coincidentally" run into Emily coming home and insist on bringing her a portion.