Page 54 of I Would Die for You

“So, are you going to tell me who she is, or not?”

The way he looks at me sends chills down my spine. He looks nothing like the man I’ve loved unreservedly for the past twenty years. But then, I imagine I look very different to him as well.

“I met her in a bar in town.”

My mouth immediately dries up, my throat feeling like it’s lined with knives.

“She was on her own, looking for company, so I offered to buy her a drink.”

The irony of his wedding band clinking against the side of the beer bottle, as he taps it thoughtfully, is not lost on me.

“And you somehow fell into bed together,” I sneer.

“Do you want to stop talking and listen for a minute?” he snaps.

For a man who’s been unfaithful, his demeanor is more accusatory than conciliatory. And after twenty years of what I honestly thought was a good marriage, I wouldn’t have believed that he had it in him to behave this way, but I should know better. Because people always show their true colors when their backs are up against the wall.

“So how many times has it been? What does she give you that I don’t? Are you in love with her?” The questions all come tumbling out in a deluge of insecure loathing—for myself as much as him. How had I not seen it? How could he do this to me?To us?

“Jesus! Will you just stop for a second?” he says, putting his hands on his head and turning to walk toward the French doors overlooking the yard we’ve spent our marriage lovingly cultivating. “I’mnotsleeping with her.”

I laugh cynically. “Well, youwouldsay that,wouldn’tyou?”

I watch his back as his shoulders tense against the material of his shirt. “Not if it were true and I wanted out of our marriage, no!”

“So, what is it then?” I ask, confused. “What does she want?”

“I don’t know,” he says, turning to face me. “But she seemed more interested in talking aboutyouthan getting into bed with me.”

I shake my head in an effort to sharpen the blurred lines. “Wh-what do you mean?” I dare to ask, as the foreboding sense that my past is coming back to haunt me returns with a vengeance.

“Well, we spoke for a while, passing the time of day with idle chat, and when I went to call it a night, she told me that my wife wasn’t the person I thought she was.”

I allow myself a smirk, as the first ripples of relief edge their way into my veins. “And you took that personally?” I exclaim incredulously. “It sounds as if she was horny, saw the wedding ring on your finger, and would say anything to ease your conscience.”

“Mmm,” he muses. “I thought so, too… until she mentioned your name.”

My fingertips tingle, and I feel lightheaded as a rush of blood and adrenaline flood my body. “A lot of people know my name,” I retort.

He nods, as if that would make sense. “Except she seemed to know more than just that, because she said you couldn’t be trusted.”

“Well, you know that’s not true,” I start, before remembering that I’m no longer living the life I was this time last week.

“And now, I realize that she had a point,” he says, finishing the sentence.

The ground feels like it’s falling away, the rock-solid foundations that I’d painstakingly built now crumbling around my ears. The years that I’d spent trying to be the best version of myself—the one I was always meant to be,until Ben—fall by the wayside, as I’m forced to admit that what happened back thenwasthe real me. The good wife I’ve strived to be, and the perfect mother I’ve endeavored to mold myself into, is an imposter who has been hiding in plain sight. The realization crushes me.

“I’m still me,” I offer. “I’m still the woman you fell in love with…”

Brad tilts his head to one side, looking at me as if questioning the validity of the statement.

“And who isshe?” he hisses, scathingly. “Because she’s certainly not the same woman that’s all over the internet.”

He laughs, as if berating himself for being so stupid, and it breaks my heart. “I mean, how could I not have known that my wife of twenty years was a redhead?” He shakes his head. “It’s those secrets you kept from me that hurt the most. I thought we knew everything about each other, yet here I am, all this time later, with a wife who felt it necessary to hide her natural hair color from me.”

“Brad, I wasn’t hiding it fromyou, I was hiding it from myself. I didn’t want to be constantly reminded of the person I once was.”

“And who were you, Nicole?”

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