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THIRTY

CAMILLE HOLDS A CUP of ginger tea as she stands by the picture window in her fifth-floor apartment, overlooking the downtown. She is careful not to brush against the telescope mounted on a tripod by the window, positioned just so.

She carefully moves her eye to the eyepiece. David’s house, a good half mile away, looks peaceful right now, a few inches of freshly fallen snow clinging to the rooftop, the snow in his yard glistening in the landscape lighting. Most of the downstairs is lit up. She catches a glimpse of the son, Lincoln, passing by a window, tossing a football in the air.

She adjusts the focus, looking through David’s bedroom window, then zooms the focus back out to the entire house, even most of the yard.

This morning, David left before six. Marcie got the kids out the door and went to work, setting the house alarm before doing so. After school, Grace had her dance lesson, Lincoln his soccer practice. David just got home a half hour ago.

Camille puts down the tea and pulls a blanket over her shoulders. The heat in this apartment isn’t great, and some cold air escapes by this window. Her phone buzzes. It’s her best friend, Zoe. She considers not answering but punches the green button.

“Feeling any better?” Zoe asks.

“The ginger tea helps. Haven’t vomited in five hours.” Camille peers again through the telescope. The house looks relatively still, quiet.

“What’s the latest?” Zoe asks. “Let me guess. He’s still not going to leave his wife.”

“I hate it when you say it like that. They’re married on paper only. They don’t even sleep in the same bedroom.”

“Says him,” Zoe replies. “How do you know he’s telling you the truth? Oh, that’s right — you don’t!”

“You’re making me feel like a home-wrecker, Z. He doesn’t love her, and she doesn’t love him. He just doesn’t want to rock the boat. He’s —”

“Waiting for the right time, I know, I know.”

God, Camille thinks, is she becoming that predictable? Is she just rationalizing? But everything she’s telling Zoe is true. He doesn’t love his wife. She doesn’t love him. Zoe doesn’t believe that, but Zoe doesn’t know him.

“Well, so have you told him?” Zoe asks.

“Have I told him … what? That I’m pregnant?”

“Uh, yeah, Camille. Have you told him you’re pregnant? Kind of an important piece of information, don’t ya think? It might make a difference.”

She breathes out. “I told him, yes.”

“And?”

“He’s going to tell his wife. He’s going to leave her. We’re going to get married and raise our child together.”

Camille looks back through the telescope, tensing as she sees David and Marcie leaving out the front door.

“Gotta go, Z. Talk soon.” She punches out the phone.

She focuses in on them. Marcie, not looking happy, walking in front of David as they move down the porch. David, with his coat collar up, cap on his head, looks even less happy — worried, even.

The expressions on their faces, the body language — distant, unaffectionate.

“Did she confront you, David?” Camille whispers. “Is this the moment of truth?”