And Brandon was there. He was kneeling beside her, wiping her face with a wet cloth. He wasn't at the office. He wasn't fixing a server. He was fixing her.
“You’re such a mess,” he murmured, but his voice was tender, not angry. “I told you not to go out.”
“I just wanted to dance!” Denise giggled, reaching out to touch his face.
Brandon caught her hand and kissed her palm.
Then he saw me. He froze. He stood up quickly, putting distance between them.
“Maureen,” he stammered. “I… I got a call. She was at a bar, drunk. The bartender called me from her phone. I had to go pick her up. It was an emergency.”
So that was the emergency. Not work. Her. She called, and he ran. He left his wife alone on their anniversary because his mistress had a few too many shots.
“I see,” I said. My voice was calm. Too calm.
“I’m sorry about dinner,” he said, taking a step toward me. “I was just about to—”
I walked past him. I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I didn't even look at Denise.
“It’s fine,” I said. “I’m tired.”
I went into the bedroom and locked the door. I leaned against the wood, listening to him whisper to her in the living room, telling her to be quiet, carrying her to the guest room.
My phone pinged.