Eyes Open

　　I notice the smile first.

　　Not the one Derek gives me when I walk into the kitchen in my good jeans. Not the one he saves for his boss or his mother or anyone whose opinion he actually cares about. This is a different smile entirely. Smaller. Private. The kind a person makes when they think nobody is watching.

　　He is sitting at the dining table with his phone face-down beside his plate, and he is smiling at absolutely nothing.

　　"Funny meme?" I ask, setting my glass down across from him.

　　He looks up. The smile adjusts itself so fast it almost gives me whiplash. "What?"

　　"You were smiling at something."

　　"Was I?" He picks up his fork. "Just thinking about something from work."

　　I nod and cut into my chicken and say nothing else.

　　Here is the thing about Derek Vann that took me a while to learn. He is an excellent liar. Smooth, quick, unbothered. The kind of man who can look you dead in the eye and tell you the sky is green and almost make you question your own vision. I married him knowing he was charming. I did not realize charming and honest are not the same thing.

　　I watch him eat. He is relaxed. Easy. Every bit the devoted husband coming home to his wife after a long day.

　　His phone vibrates against the table.

　　He reaches for it before I can blink.

　　"Work again?" I ask pleasantly.

　　"Yeah." He does not look up. "Just the team group chat."

　　Gosh. The team group chat. At eight-thirty on a Tuesday evening.

　　I take a sip of my water and smile at my plate.

　　I am not smiling because everything is fine.

　　I am smiling because I already know it is not.

　　It started three weeks ago. Nothing dramatic. Nothing I could point to and say, there, that is the moment. Just a shift. The way Derek started carrying his phone everywhere, even to the bathroom. The way he started sleeping with it under his pillow instead of on the nightstand. The way his eyes would do this quick flick to the screen whenever it lit up, like a reflex he could not stop.

　　Little things. Tiny things. The kind of things a woman notices when she has been paying attention.

　　I have always been paying attention.

　　"I might need to go out of town next week," he says, still looking at his phone. "The Henderson project."

　　"How long?"

　　"Two, maybe three days."

　　"Okay," I say. "Let me know when you have the dates."

　　He finally looks up then, and something in his face relaxes. Like he expected a different answer. Like he was bracing for something and did not get it.

　　That tells me everything.

　　I excuse myself to wash up after dinner. I take my time at the sink, running the water longer than necessary, listening to the sounds of him in the next room. The low murmur of his voice. Not on a group chat. On a call.

　　I turn off the tap quietly.

　　"I know," he is saying, voice dropped low. "I know. Me too."

　　Me too.

　　Two words. And just like that, my chest does this thing where it squeezes and then goes completely still, like my heart is deciding whether to keep going.

　　I dry my hands. I walk back to the kitchen. He is off the phone by the time I appear in the doorway, his expression perfectly composed.

　　"Everything okay?" I ask.

　　"Yeah." He smiles. "Just confirming the schedule."

　　I smile back. "Great."

　　I go to bed before him that night. I lie on my side facing the window and I do the thing I have trained myself to do since I was a little girl, the thing that has saved me more times than I can count.

　　I do not react.

　　I think.

　　I think about the smile at dinner. The phone under the pillow. The call he took the second I left the room. I think about the way he said me too like it cost him something tender to say it.

　　And then I think about the name I saw flash across his screen last Thursday when he left his phone on the counter for exactly four seconds while he went to check the front door.

　　Vivienne.

　　No last name. No emoji. Just Vivienne.

　　I know that name. Derek dated a Vivienne before we met. He mentioned her exactly once, in the way men mention exes they want you to think are completely over. "We stayed friends," he told me. "No big deal."

　　I let it go at the time because I trusted him.

　　I reach for my own phone now and open Facebook and type the name into the search bar.

　　Vivienne Callahan.

　　Her profile loads. Profile photo: beautiful woman, dark hair, wedding ring catching the light. Married. Happy. From the looks of it.

　　I scroll.

　　I tap on her tagged photos.

　　And there, in an album from last Christmas, standing beside a tall man with dark hair and a jaw that could cut glass, is someone I do not recognize.

　　But I will.

　　I save his name from her tag and stare at the ceiling until Derek comes to bed and turns off the light.

　　I do not sleep.

　　I plan.