Love and Secrets

You know what's more frightening about infidelity?

You might think it's the act itself, but it's really the sudden realization that your whole life may have just been a lie.

I've known my husband, Ethan, for four years. We dated for a year, have been married for three years, and we have a three-year-old daughter, Layla.

Was Ethan perfect? To me, he was. He was my endgame.

Or so I thought.

Ethan was what everyone called “the blueprint husband.” As the vice president of Vance Capital and the grandson of the Vance family, one of the Big Three families in New York, there was only so much we could hide from the public eye.

He remembered everything.

He remembered how I hated when it snowed because it was a reminder of the night my parents passed. He remembered Layla’s habits and never missed a single parent-child activity at her school. He would always rush home from work during thunderstorms because, as he would always say, “his princess is scared of thunder”.

He was almost ridiculously attentive.

He never passed up a chance to compliment me, especially on the days I didn't feel beautiful.

“You are so gorgeous, my Queen,” he would say whenever he caught me criticizing the stretch marks scattered across my belly. He would then remind me that the marks were evidence of “our most beautiful treasure, Layla.”

Facing such a display of love and affection, one would never think that it could all be an act.

That's why when the changes started, I brushed them off. When the first lipstick stain appeared on his shirt, I overlooked it.

His excuse?

“Must have been when I helped a drunk client.”

Sounds lame right? But it’s not so unbelievable, so I believed him.

Then came the trails of feminine perfume on him. Sometimes, when he came home from work, I would catch faint trails of a woman’s perfume on his clothes.

“It’s probably from a client,” I would tell myself.

Then the late nights, sudden meetings, and impromptu business trips started. His attention now came a second too late when I spoke. And the lipstick stains continued. Different shades of red and pink, followed by different excuses.

But tonight, as I sat in the living room holding his shirt, staring at the bright red lipstick I had found in the pocket of his shirt, something inside me cracked.

Do such constant coincidences truly exist?

I stared hard at the lip gloss, and for the first time, I didn't immediately make an excuse for him, and all the little changes and doubts I ignored and brushed off as “stress and work” suddenly resurfaced.

For the first time, I wondered if there truly was another woman and I knew that I couldn't pretend anymore; I needed to know exactly what was going on.

“Honey, you okay?” Ethan’s voice brought me back to reality.

I looked up at him as he made his way towards me, in nothing but his gray sweatpants. We locked eyes and he shot me a smile. That familiar smile. The one that made me fall in love with him.

“Yes babe. Done showering?” I asked.

He sat beside me and kissed my forehead before pressing his lips against mine.

“Yes, my Queen,” he said against my lips as I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him into another kiss.

Maybe I was just being paranoid and the lipstick actually meant nothing.

We hadn’t been intimate since I gave birth to Layla. There were nights where we shared passionate kisses and fell asleep in each other's arms, but we’d never gone past that.

Why?

Ethan always said he didn't want me to get hurt again.

So when he lifted me in his arms and headed for our bedroom, my heart began racing. He laid me gently on the bed before climbing on top of me, my back pressed against the pillows. He pressed his lips against my skin, leaving a trail of kisses down my jawline. His lips travelled down my stomach, where my shirt had ridden up, exposing the skin underneath.

I swallowed.

“Is this it? Are we finally doing it?”

His lips reached my stomach and suddenly, he jolted away and rushed to the bathroom covering his mouth.

I sat up on the bed confused, hearing nothing but the sound of him throwing up.

“Ethan?”

There was no response. I walked towards the bathroom and found him cleaning himself up.

“Are you okay?” I asked as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I'm fine.” He didn't look at me

“You just threw up.”

“I’m fine, Mia, really.” He took my hand and led me out of the bathroom, towards the bed.

Something about his tone felt off. I didn't believe him. I remembered how he looked at my stomach before rushing to throw up. I looked down at my stomach. There was nothing there, only the stretch marks I'd spent years hating. The same marks Ethan always called beautiful.

“Why did you throw up?” I looked back at him.

His expression changed a bit but he smiled, “It's probably something I ate, love.”

“Ethan…” I began, but he cut me off.

“Let me get you some water to drink, love.” He placed a kiss on my forehead and walked out of the room.

I pulled up my shirt, staring down at my stomach. My fingers traced the lines of the stretch marks.

“Evidence of our most beautiful treasure.” He had called them that. Yet moments ago, his body had revolted at the sight of those same marks.

“Something you ate.” I muttered, recalling his excuse.

I wanted to believe him. I almost did until I noticed his phone on the bedside table. The screen lit up, and I tried so hard not to look. But the name on the notification was right there.

Claire.

“We need to talk.”

Ethan’s best friend's sister.

What was so important that she had to text so late at night?

Just as Ethan walked into the room, I quickly placed his phone back on the bedside table. He handed me the glass of water and rubbed my head with a smile.

“Mia…”

“I'm going to sleep.” I placed the half-empty cup on the table and walked over to my side of the bed to lie down. I felt the bed sink in and the warmth of Ethan’s body as he lay next to me, wrapping his arms around my waist.

“Goodnight, baby.” He buried his face in my neck, but I couldn't sleep.

Claire and Ethan?

Was Claire the other woman in my marriage?