My Husband Played My Sister's Boyfriend. I Divorced Him.

"Minnie, are you all right? Why are you so pale?"

The woman beside me nudged my arm, and only then did I surface from the ringing in my ears. The noise of the reunion sounded as though it were coming through a thick pane of glass.

My sister, Winona Sherwood, had already slipped away to the restroom.

The wives who had pushed hardest for the challenge earlier had the good sense to change the subject.

I forced a stiff smile. "I'm fine. Maybe my blood sugar's just a little low."

"Then you should head home. Look how much your husband dotes on you. He's probably got something good waiting for you."

I said nothing more. I grabbed my bag and all but fled.

On the drive home, my fingertips turned ice-cold. I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles went white.

In my head, the two voices played over and over.

One had said, "Buy it, baby," in a warm, smiling tone. The other had said, "Baby," with a note of surprise.

The timbre and cadence matched exactly. So did the faint, barely perceptible nasal quality. And then there was that damned record player.

I reminded myself that Matthew had once told me he and his brother were twins. Of course they sounded alike.

Maybe it was only a coincidence. Maybe Maxwell happened to own the same record and happened to be listening to it at the exact same time.

The moment the thought crossed my mind, even I found it ridiculous.

When I reached the underground garage of my apartment complex, I didn't turn off the engine right away.

I pulled up the livestream a friend had recorded during the reunion and scrubbed back to the part where we'd played the game.

I turned my phone volume all the way up. The noisy chatter spilled from the speakers along with my own voice.

Then I called Matthew. The line rang only once before he picked up.

"Baby, are you home yet? What's taking so long?" His voice was as gentle as always, with the faintest hint of concern.

"Still on the road. Traffic's a little heavy." I tried to keep my voice steady. "What are you up to?"

"Working late at the office. One of our projects ran into a snag, so I'll probably be pulling an all-nighter." His tone was light, as if he were mentioning something perfectly ordinary.

My heart slowly sank.

I stared at the replay on my phone and listened to my own bright, playful voice ask him for money to buy a bag.

I took a deep breath and kept my tone casual. "Are you free right now? Can you check whether the record player at home is off? I left in a hurry, and I think I forgot to turn it off."

Silence answered me.

It lasted only three seconds, but it felt like a century.

Then I heard light, brisk footsteps, as if he were crossing the room from the sofa to the kitchen island.

The next second, a piercingly clear and bitterly ironic duet burst into my ears.

From the livestream on my phone came my own voice. "Buy it, baby. You remember the card password, right?"

And from the other end of the call, from the place Matthew actually was, the home he'd lied about and claimed was the office, the record player in our living room played the exact same song.

The music came through both devices at once and formed an absurd echo in my ears.

He seemed to realize it too. He gave a short laugh, but his composure never slipped. "It's off now, silly girl. Be more careful before you leave next time."

When I got home, I pushed open the door and found Matthew in the gray apron I'd bought him. He carried a bowl of steaming soup out of the kitchen.

The moment he saw me, his eyes lit up. He held out the bowl as though he were presenting me with a treasure.

"Come here. I just made you white fungus and pear soup. Your stomach's sensitive, and I doubt you ate much at a place like that."

He carried the faint scent of sandalwood, my favorite fragrance on him. He wrapped his arms around me from behind and rested his chin lightly against my hair.

"Your sister hasn't been in a good mood lately. My brother has been swamped with a project and keeps traveling for work.

"I was worried she'd come to you again to vent and ruin your mood, so I told you I was working late. I wanted to stay home and quietly keep you company instead."

His explanation was seamless and brimming with thoughtful concern for me.

If not for that phone call, I might have believed him.

He released me and pulled an exquisite velvet box from his pocket. Inside lay a delicate platinum bracelet with a lily-of-the-valley charm, my favorite flower.

"A gift I picked up on my trip. Do you like it?" He took my hand and fastened the bracelet around my wrist himself.

It was the same bracelet I'd left sitting in my shopping cart for weeks. He always remembered every little thing I liked.

But just yesterday, while cleaning his study, I'd found the packaging and receipt from a local jewelry counter in his trash and thrown them away.

Lie after lie piled up, and even the love that had once touched my heart now looked hideous.

I looked up at him and smiled. "I love it. Thank you, hubby."

…

Late that night, I lay awake in bed, unable to sleep.

My phone screen lit up.

Winona had made a new post, visible only to me. It was a photo of her pale wrist adorned with the exact same lily-of-the-valley bracelet.

The caption read: [Thank you, Maxwell. You're still the one who gets me best.]