The Razor Between Us

A typhoon swept past, and the plane's alarm screeched through the cabin. I grabbed Yves' hand without thinking, but I saw him holding the razor with one hand and writing a will with the other.

"All of Yves Riverson's cars, estate, and savings will go to Ms. Samantha Shaw."

Samantha was my best friend.

It was after we landed that he finally remembered I was here.

He caressed my hand and said that it would be fine, but at the same time, he eagerly made a call. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He turned and saw me, and his smile froze. "I was talking to my folks."

I nodded and ended the call with his parents. For the rest of the ride, he happily chatted with that person.

I heard the familiar sound of Samantha's laughter drifting from his phone, and I looked at my tired reflection in the car window. Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, "When did you start having an affair with my best friend?"

…

Yves froze halfway through opening the door, but he turned and put on that familiar smile. "Oh, you recognized her laughter? Don't read too much into it. She was worried after hearing about the plane's near-accident, and she couldn't get to you, so she called me."

Then, he got out of the car.

He shielded my head with one hand and helped me out before taking our luggage from the boot. He continued, "She's your best friend, Melinda. She only called because she was worried. Don't be so sensitive."

It was the perfect explanation. Like usual, every time I started getting suspicious, he would shut me up with a perfect excuse to prove that I was overthinking it.

Last week was an example.

Yves took me to a photoshoot for our three-year anniversary. When we got there, Samantha was already in a white gown and having makeup put on.

She grinned and waved at me. "Come on, Melinda! The cameraman said the light's going out!"

The light was going out, so they were the first ones to have their styling done, and they wrapped their arms around each other like a real couple taking photos.

Yves smoothed out the creases near Samantha's waist as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then, he placed his hand on her back.

Samantha smiled at him bashfully.

The cameraman took the photos and teased, "You two must have been married for a while now. I can tell."

Yves did not deny that, nor did he look at me. The silence told me everything.

Another couple greeted them. "You're so in love. Still taking photos even after three years of marriage."

Yves smiled, tacitly agreeing to that remark. The makeup artist told me, "Sorry, but this is the bride's area. Unauthorized personnel will have to sit outside."

Yves did not correct them. I did not sit on the stool the staff brought me. I simply stood there and watched as the two of them changed into one intimate pose after another under the photographer's guidance.

I was gone by the time the photos were out.

Samantha texted me an apology halfway through. "Don't get mad. You know how much I love photoshoots. I forget everything else when I face the camera."

Yves did not explain anything.

After he came home, he even chastised me. "She was helping you find the best spot for the lighting, and you left instead. I had to finish the shoot with her so the deposit wouldn't go to waste."

He shifted all the blame from himself to me, calling me a child.

Then he hung that wedding photo he took with Samantha on the wall. He even had the nerve to ask me whether it was crooked.

I trusted him one too many times. And now, that trust was gone.

Samantha just made a new update on her socials. "I'm the one he thinks of when it's life or death."

The photo was an eyesore. It was a royal blue razor covered in silk.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor.

Yves and I stood before the entrance, one ahead and one behind. We did not hold hands.

Once the door was opened, I reached a decision. I did not want to come home seeing someone else's wedding photo in my living room. I did not want to see my husband cleaning the razor someone else gave him.

I did not want to see my shopping cart cleared out only to be replaced by the jewelry, accessories, and fashion items she wanted. I did not want to be the one to pay for his gestures for someone else.

I did not look at the wedding photo.

Instead, I looked at Yves. "I don't like seeing someone else's stuff taking up my house's space."

He froze halfway through changing shoes. A frown creased his forehead, and he sighed. "What are you trying to say, Melinda?"

"We're getting a divorce. You can keep that razor however long you want after that."