Fast food?!
Owen, my husband, my absolutely wonderful husband, suggesting that he would settle for that junk? I almost couldn’t believe my eyes. Did I have early onset macular degeneration, and my phone screen was deceiving me? I reread it again. Nope. No eye problems here. Of course not. I knew my Vitamin A, Lutein, and Beta-Carotene levelswere high, and it would be a travesty if I had any poor eyesight conditions at this stage in my life. What I read was factual and exact.
My mind raced. Owen can’t seriously want that abysmal takeout food.
It’s unhealthy. It’s unsophisticated. It’sbeneathhim.
I thought about the sodium, the cholesterol, the grease. It was beyond anything I was willing to accept. For Owen—someone I loved and cherished more than anyone else in the world—to think thatfast foodwas acceptable for dinner… I shuddered at the thought.
No.
He deserved better than that. I wouldn’t allow it.
I couldn’t just let this go. I had to show him what he was missing. He needed something far more refined than fast food. He deserved a meal made with care, with love, with the kind of impeccability I was known for.
I made a decision right there at that moment. I would cook. I would make his dinner—better than any fast food. I would pack it up for him, make sure it was top-notch, and surprise him at his showing. He would have a meal that would blow that odious fast food suggestion right out of his mind.
I raced home, my heart pounding in my chest. The anxiety—always present, always there—fueled me now. I grabbed the ingredients I had already set aside and began preparing dinner. As I worked, I felt my hands move with purpose, my mind sharp and focused. The lamb was seasoned just right. The potatoes were mashed and whipped with the optimal balance of butter, garlic, and truffle oil. The vegetables roasted until golden and crispy. The salad—bright and fresh, a contrast to the rich, hearty meal—was ready to be dressed with the citrus vinaigrette.
I was halfway through when I remembered something. Owen would probably be busy. He’d be with his client, engrossed in showing the house, and I didn’t want to just barge in and interrupt, potentiallyruining a deal. So, I picked up my phone and dialed Alicia, Owen’s assistant, to get the details on the timing of it all.
“Alicia, it’s Miles. I need to know where Owen’s showing is tonight. I have a surprise for him.”
Alicia’s voice on the other end was cheerful, as always. She didn’t question me, didn’t hesitate. “Sure, Miles! He’s showing the house on Hawthorne Drive. 12794 is the house number. It’s that colonial-style home with the garden out front. I think it’s about 20 minutes away from the office. He should be there for another hour or so. But I doubt the showing will go that long.”
I thanked Alicia and hung up, feeling a small rush of relief. This was going to be amazing.
I quickly finished preparing the meal, packing it into beautiful glass containers—clear, with tight-fitting lids that sealed in the aroma and freshness. The containers were a work of art themselves, just the right size to hold a precisely balanced portion of each dish. They were the kind of containers you see in high-end kitchen stores, the kind that makes even leftovers seem gourmet.
Once everything was packed, I grabbed my keys and headed out the door. The drive was peaceful, almost serene. I couldn’t help but smile to myself. My life was perfect. I had everything I ever wanted: a successful career, a beautiful home, a husband who, despite the occasional misstep, was everything I could have dreamed of.
We were about to go to Rehoboth Beach for a weekend getaway soon at our beach home, just the two of us—time to relax, unwind, and enjoy the life we had built.
But that would have to wait for a few days.
I arrived at the address Alicia had given me—a gorgeous colonial-style home with a pristine garden that looked like it had been cared for by a landscape architect. The lawn was nicely manicured, the flowers in full bloom, and the driveway spotless. The hedges were trimmed just right, and the flowers—roses, hydrangeas, and lilies—created a picture of absolutebliss.
I parked in the driveway and, carrying the meal, walked up the path toward the front door. As I approached, I glanced through one of the front windows. I saw movement—Owen, I thought, still with his client.
But then, I saw something else. My stomach lurched as I watched Owen, naked, straddling another man on the couch. The stranger’s legs were in the air as Owen seemed to be thrusting himself into the other man’s body, whose face I couldn’t see beyond the armrest of the sofa that concealed him.
I froze.
The world seemed to stop.
I couldn’t breathe.
I felt my body go numb.
The glass container slipped from my hands, shattering on the sidewalk, the sound sharp and final.
Owen’s eyes met mine, and for a moment, we just stared at each other. I couldn’t process it. I couldn’t think.
I turned, my heart pounding, and I ran back to the car. I could hear Owen calling my name, his voice desperate, but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t face him. I couldn’t process what I had just seen.
I slammed the door behind me as I entered the driver’s side of my Audi, ignoring his frantic calls as I sped away from the house, away from the life I thought was immaculate. My hands were shaking as I gripped the steering wheel, and my mind was a mess of thoughts, of confusion, of pain.
The phone buzzed in my lap—texts, calls, all from Owen—but I couldn’t bring myself to answer.