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I grab my phone off my nightstand, typingDaniel “Bo” Monroeinto the search bar. I need to see his wife. Just a picture so I can visualize the woman whose marriage I just tainted, whether she knows it or not. For what? So I can feel even worse? I don’t even know the answer to that.

The top result is for a cabin building business, Monroe Cabins. I click on the link, ending up on a website that features a picture of him in a hard hat standing next to a cabin. He’s a builder. I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking of Libby’s question.Like someone who builds houses?It’s almost as if she wanted this to happen. Even if he was married? What woman would do that?

I shove the thoughts away, clicking one of the icons that links to a social media page. All professional photos of finished and in-progress cabins, no hint at his personal life or wife.

I click to make one larger, examining the details. The mountains are filled with cabins, but his are unique in that they also look modern. Like you could walk in and see animal heads mounted on the walls as much as abstract art. My thumb scrolls across the pictures, the wood of the logs combine with industrial metal finishes to create a sort of architectural art.

Swiping to the next one, I clumsily hit the heart icon in the corner. I flinch with an audible, “No!”as I drop the phone like a hot potato. If he runs this account, he’ll see my name. He’ll know I was looking.

Before my phone makes it to the nightstand, it vibrates with a text.

Unknown number:A little bird told me you see something you like.

Shit.

Me:It was an accident. How did you get this number?

Bo:You accidentally ended up on my business page and liked a photo from 8 months ago at 9:30 at night?

My body is so hot I feel like a hog on a spit over a fire. I don’t respond. I can’t. How the hell can I defend myself?

Three dots appear and disappear before finally:

Bo:Gran gave me your number so you could reach me if youhave any questions.

No.

Me:I don’t.

Minutes pass in a silence that’s only broken up by the sound of the ceiling fan spinning above me.

Bo:That house you liked is one of my favorites—I could show you sometime.

The emotion that’s been stewing isn’t muddled at all, it’s a crystal-clear vibration of rage.

Me:You should probably show your wife.

I turn off my phone, put it on my nightstand, and let Bo steal another night of my sleep without permission.

Four

Veda’s kitchen table hasa chipped coat of red paint on it and a lilac candle burning in the middle. I sit across from her quietly as she eats a bagel, watching me watch her. Bite, chew, swallow, repeat. Her fingers are tangled as she works to pick up the smaller final pieces, but the firm expression on her face doesn’t falter. Like the efforts of her body are wholly separate from her emotions.

Finally, when it feels like we might be slipping into a staring contest, I speak.

“Listen, Veda, yesterday was…yesterday.” I shake my head and laugh under my breath. “I really can be helpful with whatever you need me to do while I’m here. Is there anything you’d like for me to take care of to make things easier for you? I know that arthritis can be a bear sometimes, I’ve worked with several people that have dealt with it.” My eyes drift from her to the candle. My urge to blow it out becoming so powerful it’s like a second person living beneath my skin.

She studies me asshe takes a sip of her orange juice then dabs her mouth with a napkin.

“Tell me about what happened.” She nods toward my chest.

I’m wearing a loose-fitting T-shirt and cut-off jean shorts today, but it’s clear she knows what she saw.

It’s not something I’d usually discuss with a client so early on, yet something tells me if Veda and I are going to have any kind of chance at getting along, I must do this.

I fight the impulse to look away from her. “I had a prophylactic bilateral mastectomy when I was twenty-five.”

“English, please,” she says curtly.