Fifty-One Calls to a Dead Marriage

§01

Fifty-one calls to one unknown number in seven days.

That wasn't a wrong number.

That was a secret.

I stared at my husband’s phone records, the clinical black and white of the digital statement blurring into a single, damning line.

Trevor.

My Trevor.

The man who kissed me goodbye this morning with the scent of coffee and mint on his breath, his hand lingering on my waist just a second too long, whispering about the dinner reservations he'd made for our anniversary next week.

A wave of nausea churned in my stomach, hot and acidic.

The memory, so sweet just hours ago, now tasted like poison.

I stormed into the master bathroom, the phone clutched in my hand like a weapon.

He was in the shower, the frosted glass obscuring his form into a vague, soapy silhouette, humming a tune I didn't recognize.

Steam billowed out as I yanked the door open, the sudden cold air making him flinch.

“Who is she?”

Trevor stood there, a crown of shampoo foam on his head, his expression shifting from surprise to a weary kind of annoyance.

It was a look I’d seen before, one he reserved for delayed flights and inconvenient business calls.

“Meredith, what the hell? I’m in the shower. Can this wait?”

“No, it can't,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet. “Fifty-one calls, Trevor. To a number I don’t recognize. This week alone. While you were telling me you were in board meetings.”

He sighed, a long, theatrical exhalation, as he wiped foam from his eyes.

He looked utterly, maddeningly unconcerned.

“Are we really doing this? It’s probably a new supplier, or a headhunter. You know how it is.”

“A headhunter who calls you seven times a day, including at 11 PM on a Saturday? Don’t insult my intelligence.”

He finally turned off the water, grabbing a towel.

His confidence was too absolute, too dismissive.

It was the confidence of a man who believed he had all the angles covered.

“You know what? Fine,” he said, his voice laced with condescension. “If you suspect I’m cheating, just call the number yourself. Be my guest. Pick any of the fifty-one calls you’re so obsessed with and dial it. Then you can apologize for this little drama.”

It was a bluff.

It had to be.

I snatched my phone, my fingers trembling slightly as I stabbed at the screen, dialing the number from the top of the list.

The sound of the ringing filled the tense silence of the bathroom.

It rang once, twice.

Then, a click.

A woman’s voice, crisp and professional, answered.

“Welcome to Cypress Table. How can I help you?”

Cypress Table.

It was one of my favorite restaurants, a place we frequented for anniversaries and quiet celebrations.

The place he'd just mentioned for our anniversary.

A hot flush of embarrassment washed over me, so intense it made my ears ring.

I mumbled a quick “wrong number” and hung up, my heart pounding with a mixture of relief and humiliation.

Trevor stood there, a smug, knowing smirk playing on his lips as he wrapped the towel around his waist.

“Feel better now? Or do you want to check my browser history for good measure?”

I felt like a fool.

Later that week, during a dinner meeting at Cypress Table, I made a point to speak with the manager.

As I settled the bill, I slid an extra hundred-dollar bill across the table.

It felt like a penance.

“The service tonight was exceptional,” I said, my tone casual. “I'd like to leave a generous tip for the entire staff, and please pass on my compliments to your receptionist—she was incredibly professional on the phone when I called the other day.”

The manager, a kind, middle-aged man named Arthur whom I’d known for years, looked at me, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion.

“I appreciate the sentiment, Meredith, truly. But I’m a bit confused.”

He pushed the bill gently back towards me.

“We've never had a female receptionist. It's always been a man. For the last ten years, it's been my nephew, David.”

§02

The manager’s words hung in the air, colder and sharper than the ice in my water glass.

My carefully constructed relief shattered into a million tiny, razor-sharp pieces.

The bluff wasn't a bluff.

It was a perfectly constructed lie, with a real-world set piece.

I forced a tight smile, retracting my hand as if the hundred-dollar bill had suddenly burst into flames.

My mind was racing, connecting dots I hadn't even seen before.

The prepaid burner phone.

The call forwarding app.

It was so simple.

So brilliant.

So cruel.

“My mistake, then,” I said, my voice miraculously steady. “I must be thinking of another place. It’s been a long week.”

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