I went to the bedroom, took the small black notebook from my bedside drawer, and wrote a single line.
Meridian Hotel. 32 charges. Tues/Thurs. Pattern confirmed.
Then I sat very still on the edge of the bed and thought about the last nine years.
About how Nathan had once told me I worked too hard, that I didn’t have to prove anything anymore, that we were a team. About how easy it was to confuse being cherished with being gradually reduced. About how I had let my certifications lapse, one renewal at a time, because there was always a vacation to plan or a fundraiser to host or a dinner table to style for people Nathan wanted to impress.
I didn’t call him.
I didn’t smash a glass or throw his suits into the driveway or text a photo of the statements to whatever woman was occupying my Tuesday and Thursday nights by proxy.
I called my sister.
Roz answered on the third ring. In the background, I heard a monitor beeping and somebody laughing too loudly, which meant she was probably near the nurses’ station at Stamford Hospital.
“Hey, Cece, can I call you back in—”
“He’s cheating on me.”
Silence.
Three seconds. For Roz, that was basically a religious experience.