“What’s this?” I asked, turning the paper toward him.
He glanced at it.
“What?”
“The restaurant. You said you were at the office that night.”
He barely looked at the statement.
“It was a business dinner.”
“With whom?”
“People from work, Debra.”
“Which people?”
His expression changed.
Not dramatically, but enough for me to notice.
“Why are you interrogating me?”
“I’m asking a question.”
“And I’m answering it. I had dinner with people from work. I didn’t think I needed to submit a report to my wife.”
I stared at him, stunned by the sharpness of his response.
“I didn’t say you did.”
“Then why are we having this conversation?”
He picked up his phone and walked away.
For the rest of the evening, he barely spoke to me.
By bedtime, I had convinced myself that I had made too much of it.
I even apologized the next morning.
That was the part I found hardest to forgive myself for later.
