He had been sleeping with her for at least six months, maybe longer, and what sickened me most was not only the affair itself. It was the efficiency of it. He had fit betrayal into our shared calendar the way other men fit in golf, gym sessions, or business flights, as if adultery were just another adult habit to manage well.
When Caleb stepped out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist and water still running down his chest, he froze when he saw me sitting on the bed.
I was holding his phone in both hands, not because I feared dropping it, but because my fingers no longer trusted themselves to do anything gentle.
For one strange second, he did not look ashamed.
He looked irritated.
“You went through my phone?” he snapped, as if I had violated something sacred instead of stumbling across the graveyard of our marriage because he had been careless enough to leave it glowing.
I stood and asked the only question my body could force through the ringing in my ears and the nausea burning up my throat.
“How long?”