Unfaithfully Yours

“Tuesday: two white pills for inflammation, one small blue capsule for nausea, and the expensive new treatment Charles grudgingly approved last month. ”

The sunrise filters through our kitchen's bay window like a whisper, painting everything in shades of gold that feel too optimistic for five-thirty in the morning.

My fingers trace the cool marble countertop as I reach for Marianne's pill organizer, the plastic compartments clicking softly as I count out her morning medications. The cost of these pills makes my stomach clench every time I think about it. Twelve hundred dollars a week, and that's with insurance.

Without Charles's coverage...

I shake the thought away and pour a glass of water, watching the pills settle at the bottom like tiny anchors.

I move through the immaculate space on silent feet, each step calculated to avoid the creaky floorboard near the corridor—the one Charles always promises to fix but never does.

The guest room door opens with the faintest squeak as I slip inside. Marianne's pale face turns toward me from the narrow bed, her dark hair splayed across the pillow like spilled ink. At eighteen, she looks fragile as tissue paper, but her eyes still hold that spark of determination that's kept her fighting for three years since the diagnosis.

"Morning, sunshine," I whisper, settling beside her on the mattress edge.

She attempts a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "The pain woke me up again around four."

My chest tightens. "Scale of one to ten?"

"Seven. Maybe eight." She struggles to sit up, and I immediately slide my arm behind her shoulders for support. "But don't look at me like that, Syl. I'm fine."

"You're not fine." The words slip out harsher than intended. I soften my voice. "Here, take these."

She accepts the pills without argument, though I catch the way her hand trembles slightly as she brings the water glass to her lips. The silence stretches between us, heavy with all the things we don't say anymore. Like how the medical bills are eating through our savings. Like how Charles's patience is wearing thin. Like how I lie awake at night calculating how long we can keep this up.

"The new treatment's helping," she says quietly. "I can feel it."

I want to believe her. Need to believe her. "Dr. Martinez wants to see you again next week. We'll figure out the payment plan."

"Sylvia." Her fingers find mine, surprisingly warm despite her illness. "You don't have to carry this alone."

But I do. That's what big sisters do, especially when their little sisters are dying and their husbands control every dollar that flows through their lives.

"I'll find a way," I murmur, squeezing her hand. "I always do."

After ensuring Marianne has everything she needs, I escape to the back garden where my roses wait in the growing light. Here, among the carefully tended beds Charles allows me to maintain, I can breathe. The soil beneath my knees feels real, honest, unlike the polished perfection of everything else in our life.

I'm deadheading the white climbers when the rumble of a diesel engine interrupts the morning stillness. Across our manicured street, a battered moving truck idles in front of the old Morrison place—a two-story colonial that's been empty for six months since Mrs. Morrison moved to assisted living. The house looks tired, paint peeling from its shutters like old makeup, a stark contrast to our neighborhood's pristine facades.

Two burly men emerge from the truck's cab, and I watch them wrestle a leather sofa toward the front door. Someone's actually moving into that place. Charles won't be pleased—he's been hoping a family with "proper standards" would buy it, not rent it.

I turn back to my roses, but curiosity tugs at me. Who would choose to live there when every other house on Maple Street looks like it belongs in a magazine spread?

The afternoon sun beats down mercilessly as I hurry toward the small grocery store on Elm Street, three blocks from our neighborhood. I'd planned to stop at the country club's market—closer, cleaner, where Charles expects me to shop—but spotted his Mercedes in the parking lot through our kitchen window. The last thing I need is him questioning every item in my cart, calculating whether Marianne's special dietary needs are worth the extra expense.

The corner store is cramped and poorly lit, nothing like the spacious aisles of Whole Foods, but it carries what I need without the scrutiny. I grab a basket and weave through the narrow passages, checking items off my mental list: organic broth for Marianne's sensitive stomach, the expensive probiotics her doctor recommended, fresh ginger for her nausea.

I'm rounding the produce section when it happens.

The collision sends my basket flying, apples and oranges rolling across the linoleum in every direction. Strong hands catch my shoulders, steadying me before I can fall backward into the display of canned goods.

"Easy there."

The voice is low, amused, with just a hint of gravel that makes my pulse stutter. I look up into dark eyes that hold mine with an intensity that makes my cheeks flush. The stranger is tall, probably six-two, with disheveled black hair and the kind of smile that suggests he finds life perpetually entertaining. There's something almost predatory in the way he looks at me, like he's seeing through the careful facade I've spent years perfecting.

"I'm so sorry," I stammer, acutely aware that his hands are still on my shoulders, warm through the thin fabric of my blouse. "I wasn't watching where I—"

"No harm done." His thumbs brush against my shoulders as he releases me, a touch so brief I might have imagined it. "Though I think your fruit had other plans."

Heat creeps up my neck as I crouch to gather the scattered groceries, hyperaware of his presence as he kneels beside me to help. His fingers brush mine as we both reach for the same apple, and I jerk my hand back like I've been burned.

"Grayson Hale," he says, handing me the apple with that same amused smile. "Your new neighbor, I believe."

"Sylvia Trent." The name feels strange on my tongue, like I'm introducing someone else entirely. "You're moving into the Morrison place?"

"Guilty as charged." He rises fluidly, extending a hand to help me up. "Say, you wouldn't happen to have any sugar to spare? I'm afraid my domestic skills don't extend much beyond instant coffee and takeout."

His hand is calloused, warm, nothing like Charles's soft accountant fingers. For a moment, I forget to let go.

"I... yes, of course. I could bring some over later—"

"Perfect." His smile turns wicked. "I'll be the one making all the noise."

With that, he turns and saunters away, leaving me standing in the produce aisle with my heart hammering against my ribs and a basket full of scattered groceries. I watch his retreat through the store's grimy windows, noting the confident swagger, the way he doesn't bother to look back.

Something dangerous unfurls in my chest—a sensation I haven't felt in years, if ever.

Want.

Pure, simple, terrifying want.

And as I gather the last of my groceries with trembling fingers, one thought echoes through my mind:

Charles can never know about this.