“Seeing. It’s not just…” His voice lowered to a squeamish hiss. “Sex. I didn’t plan this. It just happened.”
Rachel yanked her dress down over her knees as his affair shifted in her mind from a selfish mistake to a deliberate betrayal. “Is she white?”
Matt blinked, and she could almost see his brain fumbling for the right response. “Yes. Why would you ask that?”
“Because I’m not.”
“Are you implying—”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m saying it.” That was better. Her anger had wrapped her voice in steel. Instead of being shattered, she’d become a blade. “If you think a congressional campaign would be easier with—”
“Would you stop?” Matt reached for her hands. “It’s not an election strategy, Rachel. This is about me falling in love with someone else.”
Falling in love? That couldn’t be right. Their life was a blur of photo ops and campaign fundraising events. Their nights were surfing cable news shows or mining social media mentions for useful sound bites. Matt’s political career had the velocity of a comet that incinerated every free minute in its path—including her minutes, her life, and all that time she spent flourishing cakes with royal icing. When did he find time to fall in love?
Rachel let her eyes roam around the bedroom she had designed—the fluffy white down comforter, the espresso-colored furniture, the bright turquoise accents—everything was coordinated, down to the small fringe hanging from the curtains in the master bathroom. That’s what she did in her spare time. Generate new palettes on her color wheel app while Matt kept secrets and nodded absently at variations of ecru.
“Why are you telling me this?” Her voice trembled, close to cracking. “You were obviously fucking her behind my back for months. Suddenly you can’t think of a decent lie?”
Matt flinched. He wasn’t used to being called a liar to his face. That’s what happened when you were the firstborn Abbott golden boy—no one bothered to hold you accountable. He released her hands and put more distance between them. “I was going to tell you once the election was over. I didn’t want you to find out like this. It’s embarrassing.”
He really meant inconvenient. Matt’s mayoral reelection was a formality—a small step in his ascension to an empty US congressional seat. The position had been vacated by a ten-term octogenarian who’d been accused of quid pro quo sexual harassment. Matt was being vetted as his replacement because, besides his progressive agenda, he was bankably bland. A young blue blood with a picture-perfect marriage to a Black woman he’d lifted from poverty like some liberal fairy-tale prince. Dumping Rachel for his white mistress would ruin the narrative.
Matt looked down at his hands. They were thinner than when she met him, which didn’t seem fair. Her old rings didn’t fit anymore.
“You’re embarrassed?” She waited until he made eye contact again. “I just threw you a frat boy Pinterest party. How do you think I feel?”
Matt didn’t answer, which was probably for the best. What could he say besides some cliché like he never meant to hurt her? He might as well admit that ripping her life apart wasn’t a big deal because she was the last thing on his mind. “What’s her name?”
He tensed. “Does it matter?”
“I should know who stole my life.” The woman Rachel pictured was the opposite of herself—blond, willowy, and born swaddled in Chanel. But then she remembered how Matt used to look at her before they got married, like she was priceless. “You’ve ruined me for other women,” he’d said. “How could anyone compare to you?”
Rachel bit back a laugh. Or a sob. She couldn’t tell the difference. “We have to separate.”
“No.” Matt waved away the idea. “I might as well write a signed confession and mail it to every news station in the country.”
Her jaw tightened. Even now, it was all about him. “I am done scheduling my life around your career. And I don’t want you in my house.”
“It’s my house, Rachel.”
She knew it was just his flailing attempt to win the argument. Matt winced, fidgeting inside this new, dickish skin. When his pacing brought him to a wall mirror, he stepped away from his own reflection. Rachel held her breath, waiting for him to take it back.
Two months after their honeymoon, Matt handed her a brochure of real estate listings and dismissed his million-dollar town house with an eye roll. “This place is too small. Faith needs a backyard. Pick something.”
Rachel hadn’t argued, even though the home they already shared was large enough to have an echo. The realtor showed them sprawling colonials in subdivisions with names that sounded like resorts. It was overwhelming. When she walked into what would eventually become their three-story Georgian on Millwood Avenue, she had burst into exhausted tears.
One call and the house was theirs. Another call and a blond decorator with a faint Eastern European accent appeared with a binder containing measurements of every room in the house. That was how he managed their life. Matt dialed a number and another hard thing got easier. A decade later, it was Rachel who made the phone calls, because all of it was theirs, not just his. That was supposed to be the deal. Matt contributed money. She gave time, attention, and every hour of her day in return.
“Let’s think rationally here.” His voice was slow and deliberate, like he was taking cues from Shania. “We’re not normal people. I can’t be seen checking into some hotel with a suitcase. Hell, I can’t be seen in public alone without some asshole with a camera asking where you are. Neither of us wants that kind of attention.” He gazed at the ground, the window, everything in the room but her. This had turned into a strategy meeting. She might as well have been a member of his campaign.
Rachel’s stomach heaved, threatening to empty its contents on the rug. She pushed off the bed with a hand over her mouth, and Matt stopped midsentence, eyeing her warily. The nausea faded, but the sight of him poised to sprint away made her eyes prickle with tears. He really didn’t care about any of it. Not about her or their marriage.
She stalked past him, yanked open the door, and was in the hallway before he sputtered her name. “Rachel! What are you doing?”
“You want to stay, stay.” She didn’t hesitate on the stairs this time. The house was empty. Everyone had likely smelled the rancid air and fled to avoid an awkward goodbye. Her fury intensified as she stared at used cups and paper plates strewn over various surfaces, waiting for the cleaning service she’d scheduled to come in the morning. She should cancel it. She should leave the house so wrecked he wouldn’t want it anymore.
“It’s almost midnight,” Matt shouted. “Where are you going? We’re not finished talking. Rachel!”