Shelley and I end up staying out very late. After coffee, we go to a restaurant to grab dinner. And after that, we go to a bar and have a few drinks. Well, more than a few, if I’m being honest. I keep telling myself that I need to stop, that it’s more important now than ever to have a clear head, but alcohol is the only thing that numbs the pain of Sam’s betrayal. By the time I stumble home, it’s after midnight and all the lights are out in the apartment.
I creep into the dark bedroom, swearing softly as I trip over one of Sam’s shoes that he left lying in the middle of the room. He’s always leaving his shoes in a place where I can easily trip on them—it used to drive me crazy. How hard is it to throw your shoes in the closet, for God’s sake?
I remember when that used to be the worst of our problems.
Sam is passed out in bed. He’s wearing an undershirt and boxers, and has thrown the covers mostly off him in his sleep. That’s another thing he always does. He starts out with two covers neatly covering him, then within an hour, ends up coverless.
His glasses are on the nightstand next to the bed, and he’s breathing deeply in an almost-snore. He’s got that five o’clock shadow, and as I look down at his features, it’s hard to blame Monica for falling for him. I couldn’t resist him either when we first met. I still can’t. Even now that I know the truth.
My eyes fall on his cell phone, which is plugged in on the nightstand. He told me his phone password and I don’t think he’s changed it. Presumably, I should be able to get into his phone. And then I’ll see what he’s been talking about with Monica all this time. I know I said I didn’t want to violate his privacy, but that was before there were murder charges involved.
I have to know the truth.
I snatch the phone from the table before I can change my mind. I punch in the six numbers that make up Sam’s code, and to my surprise, the phone unlocks.
I quickly click on the icon for text messages. Monica’s name is right at the top—he’s made no effort to hide it. I click on their texting thread, reading the last few lines of their back-and-worth.
Sam: I really don’t know what to do about Abby. This is bad.
Monica: I know.
Sam: She wouldn’t come home tonight. So that plan is off.
Plan? What plan? What had he been planning if I had shown up tonight like I was supposed to? Did it involve duct tape?
“What are you doing?”
I nearly drop the phone. Sam has woken up and is peering at me through the darkness. In the light of his phone, I can make out his brown eyes. My heart starts to race in my chest.
“Um,” I say.
He frowns. “Is that my phone?” “Yes…”
He sits up in bed, blinking at me as he slides his glasses back on. “Are you snooping through my phone?”
There’s no point in denying it. It’s painfully obvious what I’d been doing. I should have at least taken the damn phone in the other room instead of looking at it one foot away from him—what the hell is wrong with me? I’d be the worst spy in history. “I… I guess so.”
“Why?” He sounds genuinely baffled.
He doesn’t know what I know. He thinks I’m still completely in the dark. I hesitate, not wanting to give away my hand until I have more information. But in the end, I can’t help myself. “Are you having an affair with Monica?”
His eyes grow huge. He gapes at me for a moment, then he stands up from the bed and yanks his phone out of my hand. He stands there for a moment, and I’m suddenly aware of how much bigger he is than I am. I wouldn’t have called Sam a “big” guy, but he’s pushing six feet—a full six inches taller than I am—and he’s got tight muscles standing out in his arms from all those hours in the gym. As he stands over me, his eyes darken and I take a step back.
If he wanted he could throw me across the room like a rag doll. He could do whatever he wants to me.
But instead, he yanks his pillow off the bed and pushes past me. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m going to sleep on the couch,” he says. “I don’t want to share a bed with you right now.”
“Oh,” I mumble.
As he gets to the entrance to our bedroom, he hesitates and turns to look at me. “I don’t even know you anymore, Abby,” he says.
“Likewise,” I say.
He narrows his eyes at me. “Also, you smell like whiskey.” Well, that could be accurate.
“Good night,” he says, as he slams the door shut behind him. If he wasn’t having an affair before, I think I’ve remedied that.
But on the plus side, at least he hasn’t duct-taped me to a chair.
