Seven Years, and You're Still Jealous

I called David before I had even finished reading his message.

He answered immediately.

"Tell me what I'm looking at," I said.

"I'm not entirely sure yet.""

"Your name isn't on the document.""

"No. Mine isn't.""

"Then how did you find it?""

"I wasn't supposed to.""

I heard a door close on his end.

David lowered his voice.

"Vanessa left a folder in the car. I was looking for the registration papers because my insurance company needed them. The folder slid out from beneath the passenger seat.""

"And the document was inside?""

"Along with a printed email and a receipt for a deposit.""

I stared at the photograph on my screen.

The address belonged to a house about forty minutes from our home, near a lake I'd visited once with friends.

Small white siding. Green shutters. A narrow porch overlooking the water.

It was the sort of place people rented for romantic weekends or quiet escapes from the world.

"Maybe they're planning a family trip," I said, though the words sounded foolish even to me.

"That was my first thought," David replied.

"Until I read the email.""

He sent it.

The subject line read: *Final Details for Your Private Weekend.*

The message confirmed a two-night reservation for two adults. No children. No additional guests.

The dates were the weekend after Ethan's birthday.

I read the email again.

Two adults.

A private weekend.

I felt as though the floor had shifted beneath me.

"Did you confront Vanessa?"" I asked.

"Not yet.""

"Why not?""

"Because I wanted to understand what I was looking at before I accused my wife of having an affair.""

I pressed a hand to my forehead.

"Have you told Ethan you know?""

"No.""

"Good," I said before I could stop myself.

David was quiet.

Then he asked, "Claire, are you okay?""

I almost laughed.

It was such an ordinary question, and yet it was the first time in weeks someone had asked how I felt without immediately explaining why I shouldn't feel that way.

"No," I admitted.

"But I will be.""

"Do you want me to cancel tomorrow?""

I looked at the place cards on the dining table downstairs.

Ethan's name.

Mine.

Vanessa's.

David's.

"No," I said.

"I want you to come.""

"Are you sure?""

"Yes.""

I looked again at the reservation dates.

"If they're planning something, I want to know what it is.""

After we hung up, I walked to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face.

In the mirror, I looked tired.

Not devastated. Not broken.

Just tired of having to argue for the right to ask a question.

I returned to bed and lay beside Ethan.

He was asleep, one arm stretched across my side of the mattress.

I used to find that gesture comforting. Even in sleep, he seemed to reach for me.

Now I wondered how many things could be true at once.

Could he love me and still lie to me?

Could he be a good stepfather to Noah and still betray our marriage?

Could a man make breakfast for his wife, kiss her goodbye, and spend the afternoon arranging a secret weekend with another woman?

I didn't know.

But I knew love wasn't a receipt that erased every other choice a person made.

The next morning, I found Ethan in the kitchen, scrolling through his phone while the coffee machine sputtered behind him.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning.""

I poured myself a cup.

"Did you sleep well?""

"Fine.""

He glanced up.

"You're quiet.""

"I'm tired.""

He put his phone down and studied me.

"Look, Claire. About what I said the other night...""

I waited.

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"I know you don't always like how close Vanessa and I are. But she's Noah's mother, and she'll always be part of my life.""

"I understand that.""

"I need you to understand something else."" He leaned against the counter.

"You don't have to compete with her.""

The coffee machine clicked off.

I looked at him.

"Who said I was competing with her?""

His expression tightened.

"That's not what I meant.""

"Then what did you mean?""

He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

For once, he seemed unable to find a sentence that made my question the problem.

Finally, he picked up his coffee.

"I just don't want tomorrow to turn into a scene.""

"Neither do I.""

He nodded, apparently satisfied.

Then he kissed my forehead.

"Thank you.""

I watched him leave the kitchen.

He hadn't apologized.

He hadn't asked why I was tired.

And he hadn't mentioned the little white house.

That afternoon, I drove to the grocery store to buy the ingredients for his birthday dinner.

I chose the best cut of roast beef I could find, fresh rosemary, thick cream for the mashed potatoes, and the dark chocolate Ethan loved.

At the bakery counter, I ordered a small box of delicate chocolate curls to decorate the cake.

The woman behind the counter smiled.

"Special occasion?""

"My husband's birthday.""

"How sweet. How long have you been married?""

"Seven years.""

She wrote something on the order slip.

"Seven years. That's lovely.""

I smiled back.

But as I walked to the car, I realized I had spent so long trying to prove that I was a good wife that I'd forgotten to ask whether my husband was being a good husband to me.

At home, I began preparing the cake.

Flour dusted the counter. Melted chocolate cooled in a glass bowl. The kitchen smelled warm and rich, and for a few minutes, the familiar routine soothed me.

Then my phone rang.

Vanessa.

I watched her name flash across the screen before answering.

"Hi, Vanessa.""

"Claire! How are the birthday preparations going?""

Her voice was bright, effortless.

"Fine. The cake is in the oven.""

"Oh, you're wonderful. Ethan always says you make the best cakes.""

I gripped the phone.

"That's nice of him.""

"I wanted to check whether I should bring anything tomorrow. Ethan mentioned the wine, but I could bring dessert, too.""

"No need. I've got it covered.""

"Of course you do.""

She laughed softly.

Then she asked, "Is Ethan around?""

"No. He's at work.""

"Oh, okay. I just wanted to ask him something about Saturday.""

I looked at the oven timer.

"What about Saturday?""

A pause.

"Nothing important. Just something we discussed.""

I waited.

She didn't elaborate.

Instead, she said, "Well, I'll see you tomorrow. And Claire?""

"Yes?""

"Please don't make things awkward. Ethan's birthday means a lot to him.""

The words were gentle.

The warning underneath them wasn't.

I set the phone down on the counter.

"Vanessa, can I ask you something?""

"Of course.""

"Are you and David still together?""

The silence was immediate.

When she answered, her voice had lost its warmth.

"Why are you asking me that?""

"Because I'd like to understand the situation.""

"What situation?""

"Your marriage.""

She exhaled sharply.

"Claire, I don't think that's any of your business.""

I almost smiled at the irony.

"My husband invited you to his birthday dinner without telling me. I think I have a right to ask.""

"You're making assumptions.""

"Then correct me.""

Another pause.

Finally, she said, "David and I have been having problems for a long time. Ethan has been helping me through them.""

"Helping you how?""

"Emotionally.""

I thought about the reservation.

Two adults.

No children.

A private weekend.

"Is that all?""

Her voice turned cold.

"Be careful, Claire.""

I stopped stirring the chocolate.

"Excuse me?""

"Don't turn Ethan's kindness into something ugly. He's been an incredible friend to me, and I'm not going to apologize for having someone I can trust.""

"Then why are you afraid of David coming to dinner?""

The line went completely silent.

I could hear the faint sound of traffic on her end.

When she spoke again, her voice was tight.

"What did you just say?""

"I invited David.""

"You what?""

"He'll be joining us tomorrow.""

"Claire, you had no right to do that.""

"He was invited to a birthday dinner. Why wouldn't he come?""

"Because—"

She stopped.

I waited.

"Because what, Vanessa?""

"Because he and I are having problems, and I don't need him making a scene in front of everyone.""

"Then perhaps you should talk to him before tomorrow.""

She made a small, disbelieving sound.

"You really don't understand what you're doing.""

"Maybe not. But I'm tired of being told not to ask questions.""

I ended the call before she could answer.

My hands were shaking, but beneath the fear was something else.

Relief.

For the first time in months, I had said what I meant without softening it to protect someone else's feelings.

At six o'clock, Ethan came home carrying a bouquet of white roses.

He found me arranging the dining chairs.

"These are for you," he said.

I took them.

"They're beautiful.""

He kissed me.

"I know things have been tense lately. I want tomorrow to be special.""

I studied his face.

"Me too.""

He looked toward the table.

"How many people are coming?""

"Us, Noah, Vanessa, and David.""

The smile disappeared.

"David?""

"Yes.""

"Why is David coming?""

"Because I invited him.""

Ethan stared at me as though I'd announced that I'd invited a reporter to our bedroom.

"You invited Vanessa's husband to my birthday dinner?""

"He's your friend, isn't he?""

"That's not the point.""

"Then what is the point?""

He set his keys down hard enough that they skidded across the counter.

"Claire, you cannot be serious.""

"I am.""

"Why would you do something like this without asking me?""

I looked at him for a long moment.

Then I heard myself repeat his own words.

"Because it's my invitation, Ethan. Not a diplomatic summit.""

He went completely still.

For the first time in seven years, I saw him lose his temper without raising his voice.

His jaw tightened. His nostrils flared. He looked at the roses in my hands, then at the dining table.

"You're trying to humiliate me.""

"No," I said.

"I'm inviting a married woman to have dinner with her husband.""

"You don't know what's going on between them.""

"Then you can explain it to both of us tomorrow.""

He took one step toward me.

"Claire, listen carefully. If you turn my birthday into an interrogation, I will not forgive you.""

I felt the threat settle between us.

Once, those words would have sent me scrambling to repair everything.

Instead, I placed the roses in a vase.

"Then I hope tomorrow gives us nothing to argue about.""

He stared at me.

Then he picked up his keys and walked out of the kitchen.

I heard the front door slam.

I stood alone beside the flowers, listening to the silence.

My phone buzzed.

A message from David.

"I need to tell you something else. I found a second document in that folder.""

He sent a photograph.

It was a printed email exchange between Vanessa and a property agent.

I read the first message.

We would prefer the paperwork to remain private until everything is finalized.

The reply mentioned the house, the deposit, and a planned change of occupancy.

Then I saw the last line.

Vanessa had written it herself.

*"Ethan says Claire won't be an issue once we tell her the truth.""*

I read it again.

And again.

The oven timer rang behind me, but I didn't move.

Because suddenly, the secret wasn't just about an affair.

They had discussed my future.

They had made plans.

And somewhere between the house by the lake and the birthday dinner I'd spent days preparing, my husband had begun treating my life as though it were a decision he could make without me.

I picked up the cake from the oven.

Its surface was perfectly smooth.

Tomorrow, I'd decorate it with chocolate curls and light forty-three candles.

I'd set the table.

I'd serve the roast beef.

And when the doorbell rang, I wouldn't pretend not to know why everyone had suddenly become so uncomfortable.

Because there was one thing Ethan had forgotten about me.