“Did you sleep with her?” I asked.
He looked down at his hands.
“Three times,” he said. “The weekend of Tom’s work trip. And twice at a hotel. Halfway between. I
told you I was at a conference.”
I nodded. I had already read it. It was on page one hundred and forty-seven.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry, Jenna. I’ll do anything. Counseling. Anything. I’ll end it. I already
ended it. I told her I never want to see her again. I want to come home. I want my family back.”
I looked at my husband sitting on our front steps. At his face, which I knew better than my own. At the little scar on his chin.
“You know what I keep thinking about?” I said.
“What?”
“The chemistry notes. From college. When you spilled coffee on them and you rewrote them for
