My Husband Chose His Mistress While I Burned

I sat on the floor of our bedroom with the scrapbook open across my lap. Three years of us spread out in ticket stubs and polaroids. The night we went to see that terrible indie film in the Village and laughed so hard we got shushed. The weekend we drove upstate and got lost on purpose. His handwriting on a napkin from our first anniversary: *You make everything better.*

I smoothed my hand over the page. Tomorrow I would give this to him. Tomorrow I would make my ninety-ninth confession—the last one. The one that would finally be enough.

I had already picked out my dress. A soft blue one he once said made my eyes look brighter. I had written the words in my journal this morning, practiced them in the mirror while he was at the gym. *Harlan, I have loved you for three years. I will love you for the rest of my life. Will you marry me?*

Not the way it was supposed to go, maybe. But I didn't care anymore. I was tired of waiting. Tired of counting.

I heard his voice from the living room. He was on the phone, I thought. Then I heard another voice. A woman's laugh. Light and easy.

Naya.

I stood slowly, scrapbook still in my hands. The door to the living room was half-open. I could see a slice of the couch, the edge of the coffee table. I took a step closer.

"Oh my God, read it again," Naya said. She was laughing so hard she could barely get the words out.

Harlan's voice came next, high and mocking. "'Harlan, you are the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I see before I sleep. My heart is yours completely.'" He dropped back into his normal register. "She actually wrote that. Like we're in a fucking Nicholas Sparks novel."

I stopped breathing.

Naya shrieked with laughter. "Oh my God. She's *so* pathetic. How many of these letters do you have?"

"I don't know. A lot. She writes one every time she does the whole confession thing. Ninety-eight so far."

"And you keep them?"

"Why not?" Harlan's tone was casual. Easy. "It's kind of nice, actually. Having someone that devoted. Makes me look good. Like I'm this great guy for putting up with it."

There was a pause. I pressed my back against the wall, scrapbook clutched so tight against my chest I thought the binding might crack.

"You're terrible," Naya said. But she was still laughing. "Does she really think you're going to marry her after ninety-nine?"

"I don't know what she thinks. Probably. She's desperate enough."

"Your parents would *die.*"

"Yeah, well. That's why I came up with the whole ninety-nine thing in the first place. Buys me time. They'll get bored of her eventually. Or she will. Either way."

I should have moved. Should have walked in there. Thrown the scrapbook at his head. Screamed. Something.

But I just stood there. Frozen.

"She really loves you, though," Naya said. Her voice had shifted. Something sharper underneath. "Doesn't that bother you at all?"

"Why would it?" Harlan said. "She chose this. I didn't force her to chase me for three years."

Naya laughed again. Softer this time. "You're such an asshole."

"Yeah, but you love me anyway."

There was a sound I couldn't quite place. Movement. Fabric shifting. Then silence.

I turned and walked back to the bedroom. My legs felt strange. Numb. Like I was walking on someone else's feet.

I closed the door carefully. Quietly. I set the scrapbook on the bed and stared at it.

Three years.

Ninety-eight confessions.

I opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out my phone. My hands were steady. That surprised me. I thought they would shake.

I opened my messages and found Kingsley's name at the top. My brother. The person I had been hiding from for three years because I wanted to prove I could do this on my own. That I could be loved without the Palmer name. Without the money. Without any of it.

I typed four words.

*Come get me in ten days.*

Then I added one more line.

*I'm done.*

I hit send.

For a long moment I just sat there, phone in my hand, staring at the screen. Then I saw the little dots that meant Kingsley was typing. They appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Finally, a message came through.

*I'll be there. Are you safe?*

I almost laughed. Safe. What a strange word.

*Yes,* I typed back. *I just need ten days.*

*Why ten days?*

I looked at the scrapbook on the bed. At the letter I had written this morning, still folded in the back pages.

Because I needed to see it. All of it. I needed to watch Harlan's face when he thought I wasn't looking. I needed to hear what he said when he thought I couldn't hear. I needed to kill the last piece of hope inside me so thoroughly that it could never grow back.

*Because I need to be sure,* I typed.

Kingsley's response came fast.

*Okay. Ten days. I'm tracking your phone. If anything happens, I'm coming early.*

I put the phone down. I stood up. I walked to the closet and hung the blue dress back up.

Then I picked up the scrapbook, carried it to the bookshelf, and slid it into place between two novels. Right where Harlan would see it if he ever bothered to look.

I climbed into bed. Pulled the covers up. Closed my eyes.

From the living room, I could still hear them laughing.