“Who are you?”
His face changed.
Rebecca spoke quickly.
“Trevor, just go inside.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“I asked who you are.”
He stepped fully into the doorway.
“Trevor Hale.”
“Chicago office.”
He glanced toward Rebecca.
Then back at me.
“You are?”
I actually smiled.
Not because anything was funny.
Because the alternative might have been shouting.
“Her husband.”
The silence afterward was complete.
Trevor looked at Rebecca.
Then at me.
Then back at Rebecca.
“What?”
Rebecca closed her eyes.
Trevor said:
“You told me you were separated.”
My stomach dropped.
Rebecca looked at him.
“Trevor…”
“No.”
His face went pale.
“You said you and your husband had been living separate lives for over a year.”
I looked at Rebecca.
“We had breakfast together Sunday.”
Trevor stared.
I continued.
“In our kitchen.”
“With our children.”
He took one step backward.
“Oh my God.”
Rebecca whispered:
“Can we not do this here?”
Trevor looked at her.
“You have kids?”
She said nothing.
That was enough.
He ran a hand through his hair.
“You told me you didn't have children at home.”
Rebecca’s face crumpled.
“Trevor.”
“I’m leaving.”
He went into the room.
Returned wearing shoes and carrying his jacket.
As he passed me, he stopped.
“I genuinely didn't know.”
I looked at him.
I had no idea whether to believe him.
At that moment it almost did not matter.
“Go.”
He nodded.
Walked away.
Rebecca and I remained in the hallway.
Seventeen years of marriage between us.
Room 718 behind her.
Our children fourteen doors away.
I looked at her left hand.
“No ring.”
Rebecca followed my eyes.
“Mike.”
“You took it off.”
“It wasn't…”
“Don't.”
I raised one hand.
“I can't hear a justification yet.”
“I can't.”
She started crying.
Quietly.
That should have softened me.
It did not.
Not then.
“How long?”
She wiped her face.
“It isn't what it looks like.”
I almost laughed again.
“You were in a bathrobe.”
“He was buttoning his shirt.”
“You told him we were separated.”
“You removed your ring.”
“What exactly am I misinterpreting?”
Rebecca looked toward the carpet.
“It started talking.”
“What?”
“At a conference.”
“Chicago.”
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
The hallway seemed to tilt.
“Three months?”
“We were just talking at first.”
“Were you sleeping with him?”
She did not answer.
“Rebecca.”
“Yes.”
The word barely existed.
I leaned against the wall.
“How many times?”
She whispered:
“Three.”
I closed my eyes.
One hotel room had just become three hotel rooms.
Maybe more.
“Three times.”
“Yes.”
“Different trips?”
“Yes.”