“If you pretend you don’t know anything, you can keep being my wife.”
Christopher said it in the dark.
Calmly.
Almost lazily.
As if he were offering me a favor.
I lay still beside him.
His arm had been wrapped around my waist from nb behind.
That was how he had slept every night since coming home.
It was a habit he had never had before.
Not once in the twelve years we had been together.
So that night, I finally asked.
“Who taught you to sleep like that?”
His arm slipped away immediately.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he sat up.
Walked toward the balcony.
Opened the glass door.
And lit a cigarette.
Christopher had quit smoking five years earlier.
Apparently, three years away had given him more than one new habit.
My name is Lorelei Hayes.
I was thirty-six years old.
And until that night, I had spent three years waiting for my husband to come home.
Christopher had been overseeing the South American expansion of Pinnacle Crest Group.
The assignment was supposed to last fourteen months.
Then eighteen.
Then two years.
Then nearly three.
He came home occasionally.
A weekend.
Three days.
Once for Christmas.
But never long enough for our marriage to nb feel normal again.
I told myself it was temporary.
We talked every night.
At least, in the beginning.
He sent photographs from airports.
Hotels.
Construction sites.
Client dinners.
I sent pictures of our house.
The garden.
The dog we had before he died.
Birthday cakes I bought for myself.
At first, Christopher apologized every time he missed something.
Then the apologies became shorter.
Then they disappeared.
My thirty-fourth birthday passed with a delivery of flowers from his assistant.
My thirty-fifth came with a text at 11:47 p.m.
Happy birthday.
Crazy day.
Love you.
My thirty-sixth came three months before he finally returned.
He called the next morning.
“I thought it was tomorrow.”
I laughed.
Then cried after we hung up.
Still, I waited.
Because when you have loved someone for years, disappointment can start looking like patience.
Christopher returned to San Jose on a Friday evening.
I had cleaned the house twice.
Changed the sheets.
Bought his favorite wine.
Cooked the pasta he used to ask for every anniversary.
When his car pulled into the driveway, I cried before he even stepped out.
He looked different.
Thinner.
More expensive.
His hair was shorter.
His clothes were sharper.
He smelled unfamiliar.
I hugged him.
He held me tightly.
Too tightly.
Then kissed my forehead.
“Finally home.”
I wanted to believe those words.
The first night, I noticed the body wash.
Sweet.
Vanilla and cedar.
Christopher had always used unscented nb soap.
He hated perfume-heavy products.
I asked.
“New shower gel?”
He glanced at me.
“Hotel stuff.”
I nodded.
That made sense.
Except he used it again the next day.
From a bottle inside his suitcase.
I said nothing.
Then came the sleeping habit.
Every night, he rolled behind me.
Wrapped both arms around my waist.
Pulled me against his chest.
Some women might have found it affectionate.
I might have too.
If it had been ours.
It wasn’t.
Christopher had never slept like that.
He slept on his back.
Always.
He hated being touched while sleeping.
He used to joke that I radiated too much heat.
Now suddenly he could not fall asleep without holding me from behind.
The first night, I smiled.
The second, I wondered.
The third, I knew.
Not proof.
Not yet.
But knowledge.
Bodies remember people.
Habits travel.
Words travel too.
Christopher started saying things he had never said before.
“Don’t overthink it.”
“Stay soft.”
“You’re cute when you’re jealous.”
He called coffee “morning fuel.”
He started drinking sparkling water with lime.
He suddenly liked eggs with hot sauce.
Every change was small.
Together, they felt like fingerprints.
I did not accuse him immediately.
I had learned something during the years he was away.
Distance makes paranoia easy.
I wanted facts.
So I watched.
Then I found Gwen Vance.
Not by searching his phone.
Christopher guarded that constantly.
I found her in our company expense records.
Yes.
Our company.
That detail mattered.
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