At the family party I slipped into the dark study to find him by the window. I pressed close and told him exactly what we'd done. Then he turned around.

His phone was unlocked, face-up on the counter. I didn't have to snoop or decode a single thing. The contact name did all the work.

My husband got jumpy whenever I came home early. I never found a single text or receipt. The thing that finally told me the truth had feathers.

He only picked up her phone to silence the alarm. The thread glowing on the screen had nothing to do with mornings, and everything to do with someone before him.

He swore he was pulling a twelve-hour overnight at the hospital. At one in the morning, my phone lit up with a receipt that said otherwise.

I thought confession was the worst part. I had no idea the past was waiting in line behind the present.