Inside was the beach photo. The last one, the one she’d taken with my phone and sent to herself before I left. The two of us under the striped umbrella, squinting into the sun, her head on my shoulder.
On the back, in her handwriting: Please let your mom tell you. Then hate me if you still want to.
I threw it in the drawer of Russell’s nightstand and slammed it shut.
On Thursday night, I couldn’t sleep again. I wandered downstairs to Russell’s study for the first time in months. His laptop sat closed on the desk where he’d left it, covered in a thin film of dust.
I didn’t know what I was looking for. Proof, maybe. Hotel receipts. Emails.
I opened it. The password was our anniversary too.
His browser still had a dozen tabs open from eight months ago. Lesson plans. A recipe for chili. A sports scores page.
