Part 1The Wayward Husband

We were in the middle of a reshoot for our wedding photos when my husband, Larry, suddenly suggested I change my hair color.

I refused without thinking. “My boss is pretty strict about professional appearance. No bright or distracting colors allowed.”

But he was already warming to his subject. “Just get that ash brown with hazel tones. Indoors, it looks like a soft brunette, I promise your boss would never notice! It would look amazing with your fair skin… even better after it fades a little…”

My prolonged silence seemed to jolt him. The tender, gentle look on his face vanished in an instant.

I stared at him, my voice flat. “Impressive. You’re quite the expert on what the young girls are into these days.”

* * *

Larry’s smile froze on his lips. “Ah, well, I happened to be looking into it for a research project.”

But the way his thumb worried at his index finger gave him away completely. I’ve known him since we were kids running around in diapers; I could see his panic as clearly as if it were written on his forehead.

I forced a smile, pretending it was just a casual question. “Is that so? Well, I need to get changed.”

Larry let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and stood up to leave. He moved so quickly he almost forgot his laptop, the one he treated like his second wife.

I locked the door and immediately opened his laptop, clicking on his messaging app.

Spotless. Clean as a whistle. Even his chat logs with a student from four years ago were still there. Yet my gut was screaming at me, a blaring alarm that something was deeply wrong.

Just then, a notification popped up from his banking app. A charge for $188.

An order from a flower shop.

But Larry hated what he called "all that sentimental nonsense."

A morbid curiosity took over. I clicked on his transaction history, and a long, crimson list of charges filled the screen. A recurring payment of $459, $637—popped up on holidays…

The first transaction was six months ago.

I suddenly remembered him bringing home a bouquet of roses that day, claiming the shop was having a sale. The shop had a quaint, elegant name: The Bloom Room.

A knock on the door made me jump. I quickly closed everything, changed my clothes, and opened it. Larry strode over to his laptop, and only after seeing that everything was as he’d left it did he smile at me. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

While the makeup artist worked on my face, I searched for the flower shop’s name on Instagram. I couldn’t find a business profile, but I did find a personal account with the same handle, a page filled with sentimental quotes.

The profile picture was of two hands coming together to form a heart.

On one of those hands, I saw a ring. A ring I designed myself. A one-of-a-kind wedding band, our wedding band.

The blood drained from my face.

I dug my nails into my palm, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over. I scrolled through the feed, and each post was a dagger to my heart.

Under a sprawling oak tree, a red ribbon with two names tied to a branch fluttered in the wind. The caption read: He said he loves me, till death do us part. I guess we’ll let time be the judge.

On a sun-drenched prairie, the two of them were nestled together, a hastily packed tent behind them: Witnessed by the sky and the earth, we are husband and wife. He promised he’d make up for everything he owes me.

In a charming, rustic town, inside an old artisan shop, they were leaning in close, weaving a large, intricate lover’s knot: The owner said we look so much like a married couple, she asked us to be the shop’s promotional models. Of course, we said yes!

I remembered how Larry had tossed aside the detailed travel itinerary I’d spent all night creating, scoffing that traveling was just “swapping one place you’re sick of for another.” He’d mocked me for wanting to “donate my GDP to other cities.”

But here he was, the man who had used business trips as an excuse to travel the country with her.

The most recent post was from this morning, posted in the dead of night: My stomach acted up in the middle of the night, and he dropped everything to come make me soup. It’s true what they say: the one who is truly loved can get away with anything!

The accompanying photo showed a man’s forearm, sleeves rolled up, a pink apron tied around his waist. A few strands of long, ash-brown hair rested on his shoulder, a searing brand on my eyes.

I thought back to this morning, to the exhaustion on his face when he came back from his “run,” carrying those specific, tiny croissants from that one bakery across town.

How had he explained it away? “I know you love them, so I went to wait in line for you at dawn.”

The pain was physical. The words and photos morphed into a thousand sharp blades, stabbing me over and over. Every little thing about Larry that had felt off suddenly made perfect, horrible sense. The man who always preached that “a gentleman stays away from the kitchen” had suddenly developed a keen interest in herbal soups and remedies. The small, unexplained cuts that would occasionally appear on his forearms.

A wave of nausea churned in my stomach. I bolted for the restroom and retched, the tears finally breaking free, streaming down my face.

Three years of marriage, and another woman’s mark was seared onto his heart.