“About me.”
“She knows you exist.”
“Does she know we’re still married?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
That hurt less than I expected.
Maybe because nothing could surprise me anymore.
“Does she think we’re separated?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
I laughed.
“Of course.”
“She believes you and I have been functionally over for years.”
“Did you tell her that?”
“Yes.”
“How many years?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try.”
He looked at me.
“Three.”
I almost admired the convenience.
Exactly as long as I had been abroad.
“What did you tell her about my salary?”
His expression changed.
There.
A weak point.
“Sariah.”
“What did you tell her?”
“She doesn’t know details.”
“Does she know I funded the Evanston condo?”
“No.”
“Does she know you refinanced our home?”
“No.”
“Does she know your investment account was built from my transfers?”
“No.”
I nodded.
“So she isn’t your partner.”
“What?”
“She’s another person you’re lying to.”
He stood.
“That’s not fair.”
I laughed.
“That word again.”
He started pacing.
“I love her.”
“Maybe.”
“She loves me.”
“Maybe.”
“We have children.”
“You have children.”
That stopped him.
I had never had the chance to decide whether I wanted children with Corbin because he had already built that future somewhere else while asking me to wait.
He looked at me.
“I never meant to hurt you.”
I stared.
“That sentence should embarrass you.”
His eyes filled.
For a second, I almost felt something.
Then I remembered the refinance.
The son.
The airport.
Three years.
“No.”
I shook my head.
“You meant to avoid telling me.”
“That’s different.”
He opened his mouth.
Then stopped.
Because it wasn’t.
I placed the divorce papers on the table.
