Page 2 of The First Love Myth

I pull them into the file-transfer program I know he prefers. For a modern, tech-savvy marketer, Julian is oddly wary of the cloud.

“Oh,” he says, his voice taking on a sheepish tone. “There’s also an entry form on my desktop for submission to a festival. Can you email that to me?”

I scan the few files on the screen before I find it and pull it into an email. “What are you submitting this time?”

“Cruises Are for Teenage Lovers,” he says, and he’s obviously grinning on the other side of the line.

A blush creeps up my cheeks, taking the rest of my worries with it.Cruises Are for Teenage Loversis the beginning of our story, literally. Julian used his skills to make a series of short films, each one highlighting a part of our life together.Cruisesis the first film—my wedding gift—and tells the story of our first kiss on the deck of a ship. Nothing but ocean and stars and the wind surrounded us. I knew, even then, that my life would never be the same. Not in that teenage, awestruck, every-kiss-is-life-altering way but deep in my soul. He kissed me that night, and in that moment, I saw the future laid out in front of me, and even if I wanted to, I knew there was no going back. Julian Madden stole my heart with a single kiss.

I never knew how that night and that kiss felt to Julian. Not really. ButCruisestold the story from Julian’s perspective. And in his eyes, I was beautiful.

“Did you get the files?” I ask after refreshing his inbox for the second time. It’s definitely in the sent folder. My eyes scan the page, narrowing at the email address—[email protected]. Not his normal email address. Or his work email. Or any email I’ve ever seen before in my life.

“Yes.” His answer comes slowly, too slowly. “Thanks, babe. I’ll let you know when I board.”

I hang up, and though I know it’s wrong, I scan the contents of the sent folder. Every nerve in my body is on edge. My shoulders slump in on themselves, and I lean closer to the screen, as if he’s going to walk through the door and accuse meof spying on him. This is all sorts of wrong. I don’t snoop on my husband.But he’s never had an email address you didn’t know about before,the devil on my shoulder remarks. I shush her. Maybe he wanted to keep his professional and personal personas separate. Maybe he got tired of being confused for a woman with his Jules.Madden email. It is probably nothing. My head throbs a denial.

I click back to his inbox. There’s an appointment reminder for Dr. Montague, our old marriage counselor. We haven’t seen her in years. Counseling was my condition when Julian proposed. He had bailed on our relationship twice, more than that if you counted micro-breakups, and then after a year of silence, he showed up at my door with a ring.

The sessions weren’t romantic, and at the beginning, I thought maybe they were showing us that we weren’t meant to be together. But eventually, after a lot of honesty and tears, they brought us to a good place. Of course, no one knew we were in counseling. So our long engagement garnered a lot of attention and complaints. Our families and friends wanted to know when we were going to set a date after a month, three, six—it was unbearable. To everyone else, we have that movie love story, the fairytale, the rom-com. But a kiss and a doorway proposal don’t fix a relationship. They don’t atone for the betrayal of leaving in the first place. I smiled and nodded, and eventually, I started believing in the romance of it all too. Maybe wewerefated. Maybe it was destiny. Didn’t I know from that first kiss that there was no going back?

And now here I am clicking through every single email from this address. There are no promotional emails, the first giveaway that this is not a work or personal email replacement. The only emails are from Dr. Montague’s office and someone named Sheila Sampson. My teeth spear my bottom lip, and an awfulthought assaults my brain. Julian uses this address for emails he doesn’t want me to see.Fuck.

I move the cursor to x out the window. I don’t want to see this. If I close the window now, I can go about my day, and none of this is real. If I close the window now, we can go back to being the happily married couple trying to make another life.

But no. I can’t close the window. I have to know. The most recent email is dated only three days ago. All the fucking fucks. Subject:Going to ASMR?That’s where he is now, with a convenient flight delay. Email body:Had a great time at SRC. Would love to see you in St. Louis.I scroll to his reply.Drinks Thursday night?

I massage my temples. How is this happening? What is even happening? The emails might be a smoking gun, but they are hardly conclusive evidence. Before I can overthink it, I open the Weather Channel site and type in St. Louis—thunderstorms all day. My shoulders relax about a centimeter, but at least he isn’t lying about the rain.

The search bar goads me now that I’m already prying into my husband’s secret email. It begs me to find out how long Madden.Julian and ssampson123—that’s really her email address—have been communicating. My fingers linger on the keys. Type. Delete. Type. Delete. Type. I hit Enter. A dozen or so—fourteen, my mind screams—pop up. They’re spaced out over the last several months and cover almost all of Julian’s trips. Their schedules aren’t completely in sync, and they don’t email outside of arrangements, which is really smart if you’re having an affair. No paper trail, digital or otherwise. Disappointment washes over me. I want definitive proof either way. This sad collection of emails proves nothing and makes me feel like the bad guy.

I pull out the calendar I found earlier from its hiding spot. Why not? I’m already in too deep. The longer I look at it, themore the pattern emerges. I almost have it—all the dates seem familiar—but I can’t touch the answer.

My phone rings, and I flail at the unexpected sound. Pete. My manager.Oh, fuck. Did I seriously lose an hour peeping on my husband and miss my most important meeting of the day? The meeting I’m supposed to be running.

I palm my face and hit the answer button. “Pete, I’m so sorry. Signing on now.”

Chapter 2

Liz

The punching bag is hard beneath my knuckles. I should be wearing hand wraps, but at this moment I don’t care. The longer I sat with the knowledge of Julian’swhatever, the more I wanted to punch something. My hands are going to hurt in the morning, but if I don’t hit the bag, I might punch Julian whenever he gets here. Sheila Sampson. Another account director. Yes, I LinkedIn’d the crap out of her. And not on private mode. Let her see her lover’s wife perusing her profile. Let her feel the worry and unease that I’ve felt since I discovered my husband’s secret email address.

I attack the bag with a jab and then an uppercut. I know enough boxing to get me through a Jillian Michaels workout and not break my wrist. Julian took it up shortly after we got married, at the suggestion of Dr. Montague. She felt he needed an outlet for his doubts. Of course, she probably meant biking, running, or an ultimate Frisbee club, but Julian picked boxing. I kick the bag, and a small scream escapes. All I ever did was love him. I kick again and follow it up with a one-two punch. Why isn’t my love ever enough?

“Babe?” Julian’s voice is loud over the sound of my very angry playlist.

I level another punch at the bag before turning to face him. Sweat drips down my face, and my breathing is ragged. A chill sweeps over me that isn’t because of the arctic-quality airconditioner we keep down here. “Welcome home.” I don’t try to hide the rage simmering beneath those words.

“Are you okay?” He takes a step toward me and then, at the fire that must be seeping out of my eye sockets, seems to rethink it and falls back on his heels.

“Who is Sheila Sampson?”

His eyes widen before narrowing to slits. He crosses his arms and looks somewhere over my shoulder. His tell. What an idiot. “You read my emails?”

I don’t flinch under his accusation. “Yes, Jules, I did.Who is she?” I repeat because he’s clearly concerned about the wrong thing.

He steps back even farther at the change in my tone, his eyes staying glued to the floor. I resist the urge to wave a hand in front of his face and shout, “Hello!” I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, but I know my husband. I know him better than he knows himself. My anger is completely warranted. Because even if sex isn’t involved, Dr. Montague is. And if Julian is talking to Dr. Montague, it means he’s getting antsy. Again. Were his feet warm at any point in the last seventeen years?

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