HIS REAL WIFE

I turn and find my favorite professor from university standing behind me, drying her hands on a paper towel, face lighting up like she's stumbled onto the best surprise of her week.

"Venice! It really is you!" She crosses the restroom in two quick steps and pulls me into a hug before I can get her name out. Her perfume is the same one she always wore during my lessons, floral and warm, dragging me straight back a decade to a rehearsal room with mirrors on every wall.

"Professor Hale." My voice cracks, and I clear my throat to cover it, blinking against the sudden sting behind my eyes. "It's good to see you."

"How are you?" She pulls back to look at me properly, hands still on my shoulders, studying my face the way she used to study my posture before a performance — chin up, shoulders back, don't you dare slouch on my stage. Her thumbs press lightly into my collarbones, an old habit from years of correcting my posture backstage. "I heard you accepted the coaching position. I'm the one who put your name forward, you know. I've been hoping you'd say yes for months. Told the board there wasn't anyone better suited for it."

"I did. Thank you. I don't know if I'd have gone through with it without that push."

"I always knew you had it in you, even after everything." Her eyes drop to the side of my face, to the scar half-hidden under my hair, and her mouth softens, the corners pulling down. "It couldn't have been easy, all these years. Doing this alone, with no one really looking after you the way you deserved. I always wondered why a voice like yours just disappeared."

I don't correct her. I don't know how to without breaking down. And I'm doing so well tonight, I don't want to cry anymore.

"My husband's out there too." She nods toward the dining room. "Come sit with us for a bit, if you don't mind. I'd love for him to meet you properly — I've told him so much about my star student."

"I don't mind at all."

I should have asked where their table was before I said yes. Her arm links through mine before I can take it back, guiding me out with the easy confidence of someone who has no idea what she's about to walk me into, and I don't have it in me to disappoint her twice in one night.

We step back into the dining room, and my stomach drops the second I see it. Professor Hale's husband is seated right where is vacation opposite Soren and Elizabeth, seated exactly where I left them, are Soren and Elizabeth, her body pulled in close, his hand resting near his glass.

Her husband rises to greet us, buttoning his jacket. "Ah, perfect timing. I just ran into an old business partner." He gestures toward Soren, smiling. "Soren Malcolm, and this lovely lady beside him is his wife."

His wife?

Soren's jaw goes tight when he spots me beside my professor, the muscle along it jumping nervously, reaching for his water glass like he needs somewhere to put his hands. Elizabeth's smile falters, fingers freezing halfway to her own glass, eyes darting to me and away just as fast.

Professor Hale sits right next to her husband and turned to me, patting the seat beside her until I sit. My knee brushes the table leg. Elizabeth's coffee cup steams at her elbow like nothing happened five minutes ago, and the shrimp Soren peeled for me sits abandoned on the table, untouched.

"This is Venice," Professor Hale says, beaming, oblivious to the current running under the table. "My most promising student. She has more raw talent than anyone I've taught in twenty years, and the most beautiful voice you'll ever hear."

"Isn't that funny." Professor Hale's husband glances between Elizabeth and me, swirling his wine, an easy smile still on his face. "You two look about the same age. How long have you been married to Mr. Malcolm, Mrs. Malcolm?" He looks at Elizabeth expectantly.

I open my mouth. "Actually, I'm the one who—"

Elizabeth's water glass tips before I finish, her coffee cup right behind it, dark liquid spreading fast across the white cloth and dripping onto the carpet in slow, fat drops. She gasps, jumping back from the mess, dabbing uselessly at her sleeve, and the whole table scrambles — napkins pressed down too late, apologies overlapping, a waiter appearing with a cloth and a fresh pot.

Mr. Hale's question is forgotten by the table.

In the middle of it, Soren's eyes find mine across the table, dark and steady. He gives one small, deliberate shake of his head.

My throat closes, hot and tight. He isn't asking. He's telling me to stay quiet. His eyes are almost desperate, he's so eager to keep up this facade, to have this one evening with Elizabeth as his wife.

But where does that leave me?

I fill up a glass and drink instead of finishing what I started to say, watching him over the rim of it, letting him see exactly how long I hold his gaze before I look away first.

"Is that a wedding ring?" Professor Hale asks once the table settles, catching sight of my hand as I set the cup back down.

I look down at it — the band I've worn every day for six years, the one I almost forget is there most mornings until moments exactly like this one, when the weight of it suddenly feels like the only honest thing left at this table.

"I've been married six years," I say with a nod.

"Six years!" Her eyebrows lift, delighted, entirely unaware of the tension sitting three feet away. "Why on earth have you never mentioned him? Who's the lucky man?"

The table goes still. Elizabeth's hand pauses over the spilled coffee, cloth forgotten between her fingers, eyes flicking toward Soren like she's waiting for him to answer for me. Soren doesn't look up from his napkin, jaw locked, knuckles pale where they grip the edge of the table.

I look up, and I point straight across the table, at the man who was pressed up against another woman.

"He is my husband."