My Cheating Husband: The Three Suspects

"Who popped it for you?"

Ryan froze mid-step, one foot poised over the bathtub.

He turned around, a flash of panic crossing his eyes.

"Who popped what? Babe, you scared me."

"Don't play dumb." I marched up and jabbed my finger hard against the red mark.

"Ow! Easy, that hurts." He sucked in a sharp breath and dodged my hand.

"Before your trip, that pimple was ready to pop." I held his gaze.

"I told you to wait so I could pop it when you got back. You agreed. So where is it?"

Ryan blinked, then reached out to pull me into a hug. I shoved him away.

"Babe, with observation skills like yours, you should've been a detective."

He pointed to the washcloth on the sink counter.

"Last night at the hotel, I was scrubbing my back in the shower and accidentally caught it. It bled a little, so I just squeezed out the rest of the gunk while I was at it."

"You popped it yourself?" I narrowed my eyes.

"What, you think some fairy godmother snuck in at midnight to pop my pimples?"

His tone was casual, even lightly teasing.

"That spot. Can you even reach it yourself?" I scoffed.

Ryan sighed and turned his back to me.

"Try it and see. Reach your arm back like this, and you can just barely get there."

He demonstrated right in front of me. His fingers could, technically, reach the spot.

But the suspicion in my gut didn't go away.

"All right, stop being paranoid." Ryan turned around, cupped my face, and kissed me.

"I drove through the night to get home. I'm so tired my bones are about to fall apart. I just want to take a quick shower and hold you while we sleep."

He nudged me toward the bathroom door.

"Go on, grab me a clean set of pajamas."

The bathroom door closed. The shower started running.

I stood outside, fists clenched tight.

Something was off.

Ryan couldn't handle pain. Whenever I extracted a blackhead, he'd howl like a baby.

There was no way he'd reach behind his own back and squeeze a pimple that size.

I took a deep breath, turned, and walked into the bedroom. I picked up the white dress shirt he'd worn the day before.

I brought the collar close and sniffed carefully.

There was no trace of perfume.

I searched his pockets and found nothing.

Was I really just overthinking this?

My phone suddenly buzzed.

It was a text from Megan Parker, my best friend.

"Hey, is your husband back from his trip yet? Come out for drinks tonight!"

Megan had been my best friend for ten years. She was carefree, blunt, and could strike up a conversation with anyone.

I bit my lip and quickly typed back, "He's back, but something feels off about him."

"What happened? Is he cheating?!" Megan's reply came instantly.

"I'll tell you in person."

Half an hour later, I met Megan at a coffee shop by my apartment building.

She was wearing an oversized men's T-shirt, no makeup, her hair loosely pinned back.

"All right, spill. What did the great Romeo do this time?" She stirred her iced Americano, curiosity written all over her face.

I told her the entire pimple saga from start to finish.

When I was done, Megan burst out laughing.

"Over a pimple? Seriously, have you been binge-watching too many crime dramas?"

"You don't understand. There's no way he could've squeezed that spot clean by himself," I insisted.

"Oh, please. Guys have strong hands. One little scratch and it pops right open."

Megan rolled her eyes and bit down on her straw.

"Besides, do escorts throw in pimple-popping now?"

"This isn't funny. I'm serious." My expression hardened.

"Okay, okay. I'm being serious." Megan wiped the grin off her face and leaned closer.

"So what's your plan? Check his phone? Follow him?"

"He's definitely wiped his phone clean," I said coolly.

"I already went through his luggage. Nothing."

"What about his car?" Megan's eyes gleamed as an idea struck her.

"If a guy is up to something, his car always leaves clues."

An idea clicked into place.

"Let's go."

Megan followed me down to the underground parking garage.

I sat in the passenger seat and started searching every inch.

The glove box, the sun visors, the cracks between the seats...

Megan sat in the back, poking around as well.

"See? Nothing." She dusted off her hands.

"I told you, you're just being oversensitive. Ryan treats you so well. There's no way he's cheating."

I didn't answer. My eyes had landed on the passenger seat.

It was a single long, curly brown hair.

My hair was black and straight.

"What is this?" I held the strand up in front of Megan's face.

Megan froze for a second, then slapped her thigh.

"Oh, that's my hair!"

"Yours?" I looked at her suspiciously.

"Yeah! Last week, didn't I hitch a ride with you guys to go shopping on the east side? Must've fallen out then."

She reached over, plucked the strand from my fingers, and casually tossed it out the window.

"You seriously need to get a handle on this paranoia."

She draped her arm around my shoulder with a goofy grin.

I gazed out the car window, but that uneasy feeling only kept growing.