Chapter 2 CHAPTER 2

You Shall Be Faithful and Loyal, Even If He Is Not

It's eleven at night when my phone vibrates.

One word.

Come.

I get up without thinking.

Grab my jacket.

Pick up my keys.

Valentina is in the shower, and she'll stay there another twenty minutes—the same twenty minutes every night.

My wife keeps a schedule like a bank.

I pass through the bedroom to get my wallet.

My side of the bed is made.

That side of the bed has probably been made for who knows how long.

Yesterday.

The day before.

A month.

I don't know.

At some point, Valentina stopped waiting up for me.

And I stopped noticing when.

I close the door behind me and head downstairs.

I drive with the music blasting.

The highway is empty at this hour, and I could be thinking.

But I don't want to.

If I think, I remember dinner.

If I remember dinner, I see my wife serving us wine with a steady hand, apologizing for a steak that was perfect, smiling at the woman who had just insulted her at her own table.

And me.

Sitting there in silence.

Cutting my meat.

Eating it.

I turn the volume up.

Camila opens the door wearing an old T-shirt, no makeup, barefoot.

She grabs my tie, pulls me inside, and kisses me before the door even closes.

"You came."

"You texted."

"I thought maybe this time you wouldn't."

She leads me to the couch.

Pours me a whiskey without asking.

She knows how much ice.

She knows the brand.

She knows exactly where to stop pouring.

She's known for eight months.

I know things about her too.

I know she smokes when she's nervous.

I know she cries when she's calculating something.

I know that when she goes quiet for too long, it's because she's putting together something she hasn't figured out how to tell me yet.

Tonight she stays quiet for a very long time.

She unbuttons my shirt slowly.

Bites my shoulder.

Whispers things Valentina wouldn't say under threat of death because her mother taught her that respectable women don't talk like that in bed.

And I, after five years of sleeping beside a marble statue, surrender to this flesh-and-blood woman like a man dying of thirst.

As we're finishing, for one brief second—

One miserable second that drives through me like a nail—

I see Valentina's face.

Not her face from tonight.

Not the face from dinner.

Her face from five years ago.

Our wedding night.

Back when she still didn't know how to smile at me.

I force my eyes shut tighter.

Afterward, Camila lies with her head on my chest.

Silent.

Too silent.

I run my fingers through her hair.

I can feel she's about to say something.

Then she says it.

"Rodrigo, we need to talk."

Those four words cut the air out of my lungs.

But I don't move.

I keep stroking her hair as if nothing happened.

She sits up.

Crosses her legs.

Pulls on her T-shirt.

Runs both hands over her face.

When she lowers them, her eyes are wet.

"How much longer, love?"

"How much longer what?"

"How much longer are you going to keep me like this? Thursday nights. The mistress. The woman who can't be seen."

She swallows hard.

"Eight months, Rodrigo. I love you. I'm crazy about you. But I can't sleep anymore. I barely eat. My mother says I'm an idiot. My friends say you're never going to leave her."

She presses a hand over her mouth to stop it from trembling.

It trembles anyway.

"Tell me something. Anything. Tell me to wait, or tell me to leave. But tell me something."

I look at her.

And I can't even swallow.

Because the fair thing would be to tell her the truth.

That I'm not leaving Valentina.

That I can't.

That Montenegro men don't get divorced.

That my father would bury me alive.

That I signed a prenuptial agreement where my wife gets everything if I leave her.

That whatever this is between us, as painful as it is to admit, came with an expiration date written into a legal document five years ago.

But I don't tell her any of that.

I tell her the worst thing a man can say to a woman.

"Give me time."

And she, who is smart—

Who knows everything—

Who saw this moment coming from the very first Thursday—

Kisses my hand and tells me she trusts me.

Something twists inside my stomach.

It's not guilt.

It's worse.

It's the suspicion that I've just made a promise both women will eventually demand I keep.

I stay with her until three in the morning.

When she falls asleep—or pretends to, I can't tell anymore—I get dressed in the living room.

Put on my shoes by the front door.

And that's when I notice something.

A man's ring.

Old gold.

Worn.

Set with a black stone.

It wasn't there yesterday.

Or maybe it was and I just didn't see it.

I pick it up.

Inside the band, engraved in tiny letters:

E. Estrada — 1997.

Estrada.

Camila's last name.

Nineteen ninety-seven.

She would have been four, maybe five years old.

A father's ring.

A grandfather's.

Someone's.

I put it back on the table and leave.

As I walk toward the elevator, something sticks with me.

Camila never talks about her family.

Never mentions her father.

The one time I asked, she told me he died when she was little and changed the subject.

I didn't push.

Tonight, I won't push either.

But as the elevator carries me down twelve floors, that ring stays in my head like a stone in my shoe.

I walk into my house at five-thirty in the morning.

I expect darkness.

Instead, the kitchen lights are on.

Valentina is there.

Hair down.

Light dress.

Apron tied around her waist.

Toast.

Coffee.

Eggs with chives.

Fresh orange juice.

Everything ready.

Everything perfect.

At an hour when any normal woman would still be asleep.

But my wife is waiting for me with breakfast.

She looks up.

"Good morning. Did you sleep well?"

Not:

Where were you?

Not:

Why are you coming home at this hour?

Not:

Who left those marks on your neck?

Did you sleep well, love?

And I, who just came from another woman's bed, have to sit down at the table, smile at my wife, and tell her yes.

Very well.

Thank you.

I sit.

Take a sip of the coffee.

It's perfect.

Like everything she does.

I watch her pour my orange juice.

I've been married to this woman for five years, and it's as if I've never really seen her.

Or rather...

As if I saw her once, five years ago, and after that she became invisible.

"Why do you wake up so early, Valentina?"

The question leaves my mouth before I think about it.

It's the first question I've asked her in months.

I think she's surprised.

But only for a second.

Then she smiles.

That smile she keeps ready for every occasion.

"To take care of you, love. What else?"

I stare at her.

And for the first time in a long time, something shifts inside my chest.

It's not tenderness.

It's not guilt either.

It's the certainty that this woman has been rotting inside for years.

And I'm the one who made her that way.

What I didn't know...

was that Valentina had just made the first decision capable of destroying all of us.