She held up a photo she had taken of a yacht.
“It has a helicopter.”
Curtis looked.
“That is ridiculous.”
“I want one.”
“You don't have helicopter money.”
“I have twenty-three dollars.”
“That should cover a door handle.”
Sophie punched his arm.
For thirty seconds, we were normal again.
That almost hurt more.
When we returned to the hotel around ten-thirty, Rebecca stood near our door.
Not angry.
Worried.
Her phone in her hand.
“I called.”
“I left mine here.”
Curtis walked past her.
She touched his shoulder.
“Curtis.”
He moved away.
Not violently.
Enough.
Rebecca looked at me.
I shook my head slightly.
Not here.
Sophie was half asleep.
Rebecca helped me get her ready for bed.
That surprised me.
We moved around each other with years of practiced choreography.
Toothbrush.
Pajamas.
Water.
Stuffed rabbit.
Blanket.
For seventeen years, parenting had been the place where Rebecca and I functioned best together.
Even shattered, that muscle still existed.
Sophie looked at both of us.
“You guys are weird.”
Rebecca forced a smile.
“Long day.”
Sophie yawned.
“Tomorrow can we get pastries?”
“Yes.”
Rebecca said.
“Definitely.”
She kissed Sophie’s forehead.
Then turned to Curtis.
He lay on the other bed pretending to look at his phone.
“Good night.”
He did not respond.
Rebecca stood there.
I watched pain cross her face.
She deserved consequences.
Seeing your child withdraw from you is still hard to witness.
Finally Curtis said:
“Night.”
Flat.
But something.
Rebecca left.
I barely slept.
At six-fifteen, I dressed quietly.
Curtis opened his eyes.
“Where?”
“Talking to Mom.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
“Stay with Sophie.”
“I know.”
I went downstairs.
Rebecca was already in the lobby.
No makeup.
Coffee untouched.
We sat in a quiet corner.
Neither spoke for almost a minute.
Then I said:
“Start at the beginning.”
Rebecca looked at her hands.
“Chicago.”
“Three months ago?”
“Yes.”
“Conference?”
“Yes.”
“Trevor and I had worked together remotely before.”
“We had dinner with a group.”
“Then drinks.”
“Everyone left.”
“We stayed.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
“Not that night.”
“When?”
“Two weeks later.”
“New York.”
I stared.
“You told me you were staying in New York because the train was delayed.”
She cried.
“Yes.”
Another memory changed shape.
I remembered helping Sophie finish a history project that night.
Rebecca had texted:
Wish I was home.
That message now felt obscene.
I said:
“Keep going.”
“Boston last month.”
“Then this week.”
“Three times.”
“Yes.”
“You told him we were separated.”
She nodded.
“When?”
“Before New York.”
“So before you slept with him, you invented a separation.”
“Yes.”