"Every single day since. And yet you never thought about just telling me."
"I thought about it a hundred times. A thousand." His voice cracked. "I was going to tell you after Christmas. I swear. I didn't want to wreck Christmas. You'd been working so hard and you were finally back on days and Ivy was so excited and I thought—"
"You thought you'd hide the evidence in a box of Christmas lights and carry it up from the basement in front of me and let me watch you untangle it." She laughed, a short dry sound that surprised them both. "You thought that was a good plan."
"I forgot it was in there," he said miserably. "I found the shoe under the couch the next morning and I found the cardigan and I panicked and I put them in a bag, and you were coming home at seven-thirty, and the basement was the only place you never go, and the bins were right there. And then I just—forgot. I swear to God, I forgot. I didn't even think about it when I brought the bins up today."
She believed that, actually. That was the strange part. She believed that he had forgotten, because Matt forgot everything that made him uncomfortable; it was his great talent. He forgot dentist appointments and the anniversary of her father's death and the argument they'd had about whether to have a second child, he forgot them all the way you'd forget a dream, and then looked genuinely baffled when they came back around.
"Did you sleep with her?" she asked.
"No."
"Look at me."
"No, Renée. No. I didn't sleep with her. I never slept with her. It was that one kiss, and then Ivy, and then it was over. I haven't seen her since. I texted her the next day that it couldn't happen again and she said she knew, she was sorry, she was in a bad place. That's it. That's everything."
"Show me."
He blinked. "What?"