Page 60

Joe

I already know the truth, but it is still difficult to hear it from her lips. Not because of the situation, but rather the decade of lies behind it.

My wife has a daughter. In all our conversations about children and our future, she has been in staunch agreement with me on the benefits of a two-person household.

We’ve discussed other couples, our opinions of their decisions made and the consequences of such, and we’ve always been, at least in my mind, a united front.

She’s had thousands of opportunities to tell me about a child, a baby who is now an adult, and she has intentionally, over and over again, lied by omission, if not outright deceit.

“You understand how this confuses me,” I say evenly, as if the anger isn’t swelling through every blood vessel in my body. “Because it has always been my understanding that you are a virgin.”

Another lie. Not as painful as the first, but still one that burns hot through my veins.

It was another way we were in sync—both of us uninterested in human flesh, in the ridiculous act of copulation, one that has little to no benefits but dozens of risks.

It was a badge of honor that I carried, one that underlined my ability to trust her implicitly with other men.

I was the only one she lusted for, and she did so with a level of decorum and distance that pleased me. Pleased us .

But look, another lie.

“It was horrible,” she says quietly. “I didn’t know him. He forced himself on me and held me down.”

If that is meant to evoke sympathy, it doesn’t.

A traumatic experience in her youth? This would have been a gold mine of discovery, an exploratory event that could have brought us closer to each other and given me mountains of information about my wife.

Instead, it is another stab in the fabric of our bond.

At this rate, our marriage is a pincushion.

“Wait a minute.” Jessica speaks up, and I forgot that my little pawn was still in the room. “You’re not my mom.”

“Disappointed?” I say crisply. “I understand why.”

Dinah’s features collapse in response.

“Um, that’s a little harsh,” Jessica says meekly. “But, uh—no. She’s my aunt.” She points to Dinah, and she looks as confused as I initially did. “I told you that.”

Dinah’s gaze flicks back to me, and she ignores Jessica’s statement. “She doesn’t matter. It’s nothing. It was over twenty years ago, and I locked it away and pretended it never happened. I meant everything I said to you, from the moment I met you.”

“And your mother?” I tilt my head. “She knows, right?”

She sighs. “Yes. No one else in my family does. I was sent away for the pregnancy. Mom told them I needed therapy.”

So many moments with her mother. So many times I spoke of my wife as if I knew her intimately. So many instances where I looked like an absolute idiot.

The rage, which has been simmering at a greater and greater temperature as I wade deeper into her lies, boils over, and I whip my hand out and slap Dinah across the face.

The connection of my palm and her cheek is loud, and Jessica shrieks in surprise.

It is hard, so much so that I feel the movement of her bones, my palm smarting from the action.

When she brings her face forward, a dark-red drop of blood appears at her nostril.

She does not cry, she does not beg. She stares at me, defiant.

This is the version of the woman I fell in love with.

Too bad some loves aren’t built to last.