One Hundred Forty Three Pages

I found my husbands journal by accident. The latest entry was from yesterday:

Another fight with her. Suddenly, I miss Maeve so much. If it were Maeve, shed probably just laugh and say, Let it go.

I flipped back a page.

Passed by the bakery today. They discontinued the chestnut tarts Maeve loved. I felt this sudden, hollow ache.

I kept flipping. Page three, page four, page five.

In the entire journal, her nameMaeveappeared one hundred and forty-three times.

My name appeared eight times.

And five of those times, it was followed by the word again.

Rachel forgot to take out the trash again.

Rachel missed my call again.

Rachel brought up having kids again.

On the last page, right beneath yesterdays entry, he wrote:

I treat Rachel well. But being good to someone and loving someone are two entirely different things. I know the difference.

He hadnt even tried to hide it.

The journal was just lying there, splayed open on the mahogany desk like a written confession. As if to say I didnt cheat. I haven't contacted her. You can't blame me for my thoughts.

I closed the leather-bound book, picked up his fountain pen, and wrote a single line in the blank space at the bottom of the page:

Thank you for being honest with me.

Then, I dragged my suitcase down from the top shelf of the closet and began packing.

In the adult world, nobody actually dies from a broken heart. Besides, we hadnt had a real, screaming argument in a very long time.

I stood up, grabbed my purse, and walked out the door.

I was alone in the elevator. The mirrored walls caught my reflectionthe faint, bluish shadows bruised under my eyes.

One hundred and forty-three times.

I repeated the number in my head like a student obsessively checking a math problem they knew theyd gotten wrong.

My phone buzzed. It was a text from Gavin.

What do you want for dinner? I can pick something up on my way home.

I stared at the screen for a few seconds, then typed back: Whatever.

He replied instantly: How about that Thai green curry fish you loved last time?

You see? He really was good to me. He remembered what I liked, even from a passing comment I'd made weeks ago.

But his journal said They discontinued the chestnut tarts Maeve loved. I felt this sudden, hollow ache.

He remembered my favorite foods, but they never left him hollow.

At the office, my coworker Diane strolled over with a mug of coffee.

You look exhausted. Up late again?

No, just didn't sleep well.

Your husband is so sweet, though. Remember when he dropped off lunch for you last month? The whole floor was jealous.

I offered a tight, polite smile and let the comment hang in the air.

Good. Sweet. Since last night, those words had started to grate on my nerves like sandpaper.

During lunch, I skipped the cafeteria and sat at my desk, aimlessly scrolling through my phone. For some reason, my fingers drifted to Gavins Instagram profile. He rarely posted. His most recent update was from three months agoa photo of his cluttered desk late at night, captioned: Another productive night.

I kept scrolling. Two years back, there was a shared link to an old song. There was no caption, just an ellipsis:

I clicked it. Landslide by Fleetwood Mac.

In the comments, someone had written: Who are you missing?

He had replied with a single word: Yeah.

The person who asked had a profile picture of a white gardenia. Her username was Maeve_In_Bloom.

I pressed the power button, plunging the screen into blackness.

At three in the afternoon, Gavin texted again.

Leaving early today. Want me to pick you up?

No need. I'll take the subway.

What's wrong? You okay?

I'm fine.

I'll come anyway. It's on my way home.

That was just who he was. You tell him no, and he does it anyway. You tell him you're fine, and he insists on digging. But the things you actually need him to notice? He remains utterly blind to them.

At five, his car was idling by the curb outside my building. He rolled down the window and waved me over. I climbed into the passenger seat, the click of the seatbelt sounding incredibly sharp in the quiet cabin.

You look pale. Did you skip lunch?

I ate.

Liar. Diane told me you didn't go down to the cafeteria.

I turned my head to look at him. When did you exchange numbers with Diane?

When I brought you lunch that one time. She was really friendly. He brushed it off, casually turning the steering wheel as we merged into the evening traffic.

Rachel.

Yeah?

Is there something you want to tell me?

I watched the streetlights flicker past outside, one by one, looking like cigarettes being stubbed out in the dusk.

Gavin, who is Maeve?

The car jerked violently. He hit the brakes, prompting an angry honk from the SUV behind us.

Why are you asking about her all of a sudden?

Just curious.

He was silent for a few seconds before accelerating again, his voice slipping back into its usual, gentle cadence.

Just someone from college. We lost touch after graduation.

Lost touch. Yet she lived in his journal, occupying one hundred and forty-three pages.

I didn't say another word. The car grew so quiet that the only sound was the low hum of the AC.

When we got home, he went into the kitchen to heat up the curry fish. I stood in the doorway of the study.

The journal was gone from the desk. I opened the bottom drawerit was buried beneath a thick stack of tax documents. He had hidden it.

Rachel! Dinner's ready.

I pushed the drawer shut and walked over to the dining table. He had plated the fish perfectly, even taking the time to skim the crushed spices off the top.

Try it. It's from that new place downtown. The reviews are incredible.

I took a small bite.

Good? he asked.

It's good.

He smiled, a look that was warm, comforting, and utterly practiced.

Suddenly, his own words echoed in my head: I treat Rachel well. But being good to someone and loving someone are two entirely different things.

A tiny bone caught in my throat. I coughed.

Slow down. No one's going to steal it from you. He handed me a glass of warm water. His fingers brushed against mine, radiating a quiet warmth.

I took the glass and drank. The bone dislodged, but the phantom tightness in my throat remained.

Rachel, theres a college reunion this Saturday. Do you want to come with me? Gavin asked the next morning while adjusting his tie in front of the mirror.

I was brushing my teeth, my voice muffled. What classmates?

The college crew. We haven't caught up in years.

The toothbrush froze in my mouth. College crew.

You should go, I said, spitting out the foam. I think I'll skip it. I wouldn't know anyone.

Come on, it'll be fun. I want to introduce you to everyone.

No, really. You go ahead.

He didn't press the issue. He grabbed his briefcase and left.

The moment the front door clicked shut, I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. A college reunion. Would Maeve be there? He said they had lost touch. But reunions had group chats. People showed up.

What was I even doing? He hadn't cheated on me. He hadn't contacted her. It was written in black and white in his private diary. What right did I have to police his thoughts?

On Saturday, Gavin tried on three different shirts before leaving. He finally settled on a light blue linen button-down Id bought him for his birthday last year.

How does this look?

Great.

I'm heading out, then. Might be a bit late.

Okay.

After he left, I sat on the sofa for a long time, staring into space. Eventually, I picked up my phone and texted Diane.

Hey Diane, random questiondoes your husband have someone named 'Maeve_In_Bloom' on his social media?

Diane replied instantly: No, don't think so. Why?

Nothing, just curious.

I opened Gavin's Instagram again and scrolled down to that post from two years ago. I tapped the gardenia profile icon. The page was completely blankThis account is private. He claimed they didn't talk. Yet, she was still sitting right there in his followers list.

At nine that night, Gavin sent a photo. A group of people was raising their glasses around a long wooden table. He was sitting at the far end, laughing heartily.

Pretty lively! You definitely have to come next time.

I pinched the screen to zoom in, studying the faces one by one. There were eight peoplefive guys, three women. One of the women sat directly across from him. The photo caught her in profile: long hair, wearing a white knit sweater. In front of her plate sat a small slice of cake.

A chestnut tart.

I zoomed back out. I texted back a single word: Nice.

He got home at eleven, smelling faintly of beer.

Didn't drink much, he said softly, kicking off his shoes. Just a couple of IPAs.

He went into the bathroom to shower, leaving his phone on the nightstand. A moment later, the screen lit up with a text notification. I didn't touch the phone. But the preview text was bright and clear against the dark glass:

Gavin, I had such a wonderful time tonight. Its been so long since we

The rest of the message was cut off. The contact name was simple: Maeve.

He had told me they didn't contact each other.

The shower cut off, and the bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of warm steam. Gavin walked out, rubbing a towel through his damp hair. He noticed me sitting on the edge of the mattress.

Still awake?

Can't sleep.

Want me to warm up some milk for you?

No, thank you.

He picked up his phone, scanned the screen without a flicker of emotion, and casually flipped it face-down on the nightstand.

Get some rest. I'm taking you out for brunch tomorrow.

He climbed into bed and switched off the lamp. In the darkness, his breathing soon settled into a slow, steady rhythm.

I stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. We lost touch. It's been so long. I had a wonderful time. The fragments pieced themselves together, developing in my mind like a Polaroid. I rolled over, turning my back to him. In his sleep, his arm draped over my waist, pulling me closer as he mumbled something incoherent. I couldn't make out the words. Maybe it was Don't kick the blanket. Or maybe it was a different name entirely.

The next morning, he kept his promise and took me to a trendy spot downtown. He ordered my favoritessmoked salmon Benedict and lemon-ricotta pancakesand even asked for a pot of jasmine green tea.

Good? he asked, watching me.

Yes.

Have you been unhappy lately?

I looked up. He was carefully placing a piece of smoked salmon onto my plate.

No, I'm fine.

Good, he smiled, looking relieved. I was worried you were mad at me.

Why would I be mad?

I don't know. You just seem quieter these past few days.

He had noticed. But his perception always stopped at the surface.

Gavin.

Yeah?

Who ended up showing to the reunion yesterday?

His fork paused for a fraction of a second. Brian, Dave, and a few others you wouldn't know. Why?

The girl sitting across from you. Who was she?

Which one?

In the white knit sweater.

He seemed to think about it for a moment, his voice perfectly casual. Oh, that was Phoebe. We were in the same major. Her husband couldn't make it, so she came alone.

Phoebe. Not Maeve.

Why the sudden interest? he asked with a playful grin. Are you jealous?

No. Just wondering.

He reached across the table and lightly pinched my cheek. Don't worry. I only have eyes for you.

It was a beautiful line. So beautiful that I almost allowed myself to believe it.

Rachel, your mom called. She wants us over for dinner this Sunday, Gavin said on Wednesday evening, handing me his phone.

I took the phone. It was a voice message from my mother. Okay. Let's go.

Perfect. I bought her a heated back massager a while ago, but I kept forgetting to give it to her. He pulled a beautifully wrapped box from the closet shelf and tapped it. Got it last month, actually. Just slipped my mind to tell you.

See? He was incredibly thoughtful, even to my mother. But I had memorized his journal entries. Out of his one hundred and forty-three mentions of Maeve, one read: Today is Maeve's birthday. I wonder how she's doing.

That date was our wedding anniversary.

When we visited my parents on Sunday, my mother couldn't stop singing his praises, patting Gavin's hand. Gavin is such a wonderful young man. So attentive, always thinking of others.

Of course, Mom. It's the least I can do, Gavin replied, flashing a warm, perfectly rehearsed smile.

At the dinner table, he served my mother and kept my father's glass filled with bourbon. He didn't speak excessively, but every word he uttered was polite and charming. After two drinks, my dad patted his shoulder. I can rest easy knowing Rachel is with you, Gavin.

Gavin glanced at me. I'll always take care of her, Dad.

Take care. Good. There was that word again.

After dinner, I helped my mother clear the table. She leaned in close, lowering her voice. Are you two doing okay lately?

We're fine.

Good. Gavin is a steady, reliable man. Don't go looking for problems where there are none, Rachel.

I placed the plates in the sink and turned on the faucet. The rush of running water drowned out whatever I might have said in response.

On the drive home, Gavin hummed along to a classic ballad playing on the radio. Suddenly, he stopped.

Do you know this song?

No.

It was huge when we were in college, he murmured, his voice softening. Back then, we used to... actually, never mind. It's nothing.

Back then, what? Back then, did Maeve love this song too? I didn't ask.

When we got back, I took a shower first. When I came out, he was sitting in the study, hunched over his laptop.

What are you working on?

Just clearing out some emails, he replied without looking up. Go ahead and sleep first.

I walked past the desk, my gaze catching the edge of his screen. It wasn't his email inbox. It was an instant messaging app. I couldn't read the name at the top of the chat, but I saw the last message he had sent:

Do you still remember that song?

I pulled my gaze away and stepped back.

Rachel?

Yeah?

Can you close the door for me?

I pulled the heavy wooden door shut behind me. Standing alone in the dim hallway, I could hear the rapid-fire tapping of fingers on a keyboard from the other side. Fast, relentless, like rain striking a windowpane.

That night, I dreamed of Gavin standing under a dogwood tree heavy with white blossoms, holding a chestnut tart. He smiled at me and said, I bought this for you. But when I reached out to take it, the tart crumbled, turning into loose sheets of journal paper that scattered into the wind. Every single page was covered with the same name. And it wasn't mine.

When I woke up, the sky was still a bruised indigo. Gavin was sleeping soundly beside me, his chest rising and falling in steady intervals. I turned my head to look at his facehis sharp jawline, his long eyelashes, the faint upward curve of his lips as if he were dreaming of something beautiful. Who was in his dreams?

I slid quietly out of bed and padded down to the study. The leather journal was still buried at the very bottom of the drawer. I didn't open it. I didn't need to. Even if I read it a hundred more times, the math wouldn't change.

One hundred and forty-three versus eight. That was the raw, unvarnished math of our marriage.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed on the counter with a text from an unknown number:

Hi, is this Rachel? Im Phoebe, one of Gavin's friends from college. He mentioned you at the reunion, and Id love to connect if youre open to it!

Phoebe. The girl sitting across from him in the photo, the one with the chestnut tart.

I stared at the message for a long time. Then I typed back: Sure.

Phoebe added me. Her profile picture was a silhouette of her in profile against a golden sunset. Her first text included a smiley face: Hey Rachel! Im Phoebe. My boyfriend used to room with Gavin back in college, so we all ended up becoming close friends.

I wrote back: Hi.

We missed you at the reunion! Gavin said you were resting at home. You definitely have to come out with us next time.

I'd love that.

She was incredibly warm, texting me every other day about mundane thingsthe best local bistros, sales at the mall, occasionally sending photos of lipstick shades to ask for my opinion. I kept my replies polite but detached. On the fifth day, she sent an old photograph.

It was a group photo from college. Seven or eight of them were standing on a grassy campus lawn. Gavin was on the far left, looking much leaner, with a shy, boyish grin. Standing right next to him was a girl with a ponytail and a plain white t-shirt, her eyes crinkling into half-moons as she laughed.

Phoebes caption read: Found this in my old drive! We were all so young.

I zoomed in on the girl next to Gavin. Her hand was resting naturally on his shoulder, and his body was angled slightly toward her, as if drawn by an invisible gravity.

Who is the girl standing next to Gavin? I messaged back.

Phoebe replied almost instantly: Oh, thats Maeve. She was the star of our creative writing program. Everyone called her Mae.

Maeve.

The phone nearly slipped from my numb fingers.

Does she still keep in touch with everyone? I asked.

Yeah, she actually lives in the city! She came to the reunion the other night.

She was at the reunion.

Gavin had told me Maeve wasn't there. He told me the person sitting opposite him was Phoebe.

Are you doing okay, Rachel? Why the interest?

Oh, no reason. They just looked really close in the photo, so I got curious.

Phoebe sent a string of laugh emojis: Haha, yeah, they were practically joined at the hip in college. They never officially dated, though. Maeve got married right after graduation, but she got divorced recently. She's single now.

Joined at the hip. Never dated. Single now.

I set the phone face down and took a slow, deep breath, trying to steady the shaking in my chest.

When Gavin got home that evening, I was in the kitchen prepping dinner. He slipped off his shoes, walked up behind me, and wrapped his arms around my waist.

Smells amazing. What are we having?

Braised ribs.

My favorite. No one makes them like you do.

I held the spatula still, staring at the sizzling pan. Gavin, did Maeve show up at the reunion last weekend?

The arms around my waist stiffened instantly.

How do you know that name?

Phoebe told me. We connected on Instagram.

He let go of me, taking a step back. Phoebe talks too much.

So she was there?

Yes, he said, leaning against the refrigerator, his tone carefully neutral. It was a standard reunion. She was in our class, Rachel. It's not like we could ban her from coming.

You told me she wasn't there.

I never said that. I said Phoebe was the one sitting across from me.

Then where did Maeve sit?

I don't know, I don't remember. Rachel, what is this really about? A sharp edge of irritation crept into his voice.

I switched off the burner and turned around to face him. I want to know if the Maeve in your diary is Maeve Warren.

The air in the kitchen turned instantly frigid. Gavins face drained of color, his annoyance morphing into shock, and then into a look I had never seen on him beforethe raw panic of a man caught red-handed.

You read my journal?

It was lying wide open on the desk. I didn't search for it. You left it there.

His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. Rachel... those were just private thoughts. Things I wrote for myself.

One hundred and forty-three times, I said. You wrote her name down one hundred and forty-three times.

He didn't deny it. He didn't even try to explain. He just stood there, watching me, waiting for the inevitable explosionfor me to scream, throw things, or break down in tears.

But I didn't do any of those things. I simply untied my apron, folded it neatly, and set it on the counter.

The ribs need about ten more minutes. You can plate them yourself.

I walked past him. As I cleared the kitchen doorway, he reached out and caught me by the wrist.

Rachel, I haven't contacted her. I swear to God.

I know.

Then why are you...

Gavin, I said gently, pulling my wrist from his grasp. I looked directly into his eyes. You treat me well. But being good to someone and loving someone are two entirely different things. You wrote that yourself.

His face went completely ash-white. I walked into the bedroom and shut the door behind me. The suitcase was still sitting on the floor, half-packed. I knelt down and began placing the remaining clothes inside.

As I was pulling the zipper closed, my phone buzzed. It wasn't Gavin. It was Phoebe.

Rachel, I just had lunch with Maeve. She told me something, and... honestly, I think you deserve to know.

What is it?

She said Gavin texted her last week. He asked her to meet up for dinner. He said there were things he needed to say to her in person.

My hand froze on the zipper.

She said she turned him down, but Gavin insisted...

The message cut off there. Phoebes next text didnt come. I stared at the screen, my fingers turning icy cold.

Outside the door, I heard Gavin's footsteps approaching, heavy and hurried. Then came a sharp knock.

Rachel, open up. We need to talk.

I just called Maeve. I made it clear to her that we can't contact each other anymore, that we're completely...

His voice died in his throat.

Through the crack at the bottom of the door, the wheels of my suitcase were clearly visible.