I Painted My Husband's Affair for the World to See

In the car ahead, the two of them were kissing,

and it pulled me back a few months,

to the night William got drunk.

I'd meant to silence his notifications, but my thumb hit his contacts instead.

The name pinned to the top had no label, just blank,

yet the thread under it ran on and on,

the last message three years old.

That was when I learned William knew how to keep a conversation going.

He could walk someone through what to eat for dinner, help her pick out earrings.

It seemed that whenever he wanted to, he could slip right into someone's life.

I scrolled up for a while, then my fingertip stopped.

"Imogen, this time it's really over."

"I'm getting married."

That was the night before our wedding.

That same night he'd pinned me against the window and kissed me for ten minutes,

until my lips went numb.

Half a year later,

Imogen asked him.

"Is it that you don't love me anymore, or that you can't love me?"

William replied.

"Can't."

The day he sent that was the happiest day of my life.

For our six-month anniversary,

William, who rarely bothered, cooked a whole spread with his own hands.

All the dishes I'd nagged him about for so long, the ones he'd never wanted to make.

Mom and Dad always said everyone had their little flaws,

and that a man like William was a good one.

That same good man

could finish telling me he loved me and then hold and kiss another woman.

Right now, I was nothing more than a stranger watching someone else's love story.

So I followed behind them like this,

down street after street of Charleston.

William had never once brought me back to the home soil that raised him,

and yet I knew it better than he did,

which brick had left the scar on his forehead,

which river he used to sneak into to catch fish.

Imogen put her hands on her hips and laughed without restraint.

"I still remember. That chubby kid wanted to hit me, and you blocked him for me and took a brick to the head. That scar on your forehead's from then, isn't it?"

"And then you were laid up for a few days, and I talked you into going down to the river to catch fish for me. You didn't catch a single one, and you took a fall too!"

The laughter in William's eyes spilled over.

I was standing less than ten yards from them,

listening to Imogen make William shout 'I love Imogen' at that little river.

What William didn't know

was that Imogen was forwarding me their memories almost in real time.

"Cloud Freda, I really hope you can draw these memories out well. They mean so much to us."

Of course. I'll draw them well.

It was a surprise for William.

That night, by the grass at the lakeside, William confessed to Imogen again.

The passersby, knowing nothing, cheered them on,

and Imogen flushed red, hand over her mouth as if she were about to cry.

"Immy, marry me."

In the crowd, someone had seen Imogen's posts too,

and recognized them at once.

"Who says you can't find love with your ex all over again?!"

"This is everything. Get together, get together!"

More and more people came, until it was a crush.

Suddenly I felt someone yank hard at the strap of my bag,

and I lost my balance and hit the ground.

Someone's heel came down on the back of my hand.

Through the splitting, bone-deep pain, someone shouted.

"Move back, someone's fallen!

A few more feet trampled over me,

and the ring slid right off my fourth finger.

"Immy, this way!"

I didn't look up, and still I knew whose shoe was on my hand.

I'd bought those shoes for him last week.

If he looked down right now, his eyes would meet mine.

Even though I'd played it out a thousand times over, I couldn't help but think,