Not Marcus’s music. Not his taste. It was smooth, sugary pop—the playlist he used to tease me about, the one he called “mall music.” My heartbeat kicked hard against my ribs. At first I didn’t understand why. Then a laugh floated down the stairs, bright and feminine and familiar enough to make my throat close.
I stood in the foyer with my hand on the doorknob, listening.
No, I thought. Not here. Not my house. Not—
My feet moved anyway. I climbed the stairs slowly, each step heavier than the last. The music grew louder in the hallway. Our bedroom door was cracked open, just a sliver, as if whoever was inside hadn’t bothered to make sure the world stayed out.
Through that crack I saw movement. A shadow. A flash of skin.
My body knew before my mind did. My hands started shaking so hard I felt it in my wrists. I pushed the door open.
The room smelled like my laundry detergent and someone else’s perfume—floral, familiar, a scent that had been hugged into my sweaters at girls’ nights and brunches and birthday parties.
There they were.
Marcus, my husband of eight years.
And Rebecca.