PART ONE — THE MAN SHE CALLED BORING
The voice note was still playing when I walked into the kitchen.
“Babe, you left your sports bra in my locker. Tell your sad-sack husband you’re working late tomorrow. We need to go over your ground game.”
A loud laugh followed.
I stood there with one hand on the kitchen counter and listened to it twice.
Not because I didn’t understand what I’d heard.
Because after fourteen years of marriage, I couldn’t understand how easily my wife had said it.
My wife, Claire.
Fourteen years.
Fourteen Christmases.
Two houses.
One mortgage.
Hundreds of dinners where we sat across from each other and talked about nothing.
And now there was a twenty-eight-year-old chafar kickboxing instructor calling my wife “babe” while telling her to lie to me.
I looked at the phone.
Then at the stairs.
Claire appeared a minute later wearing her robe.
She
