I Played My Husband's Affair on Live TV

The storm hits at nine-thirty. I'm rinsing my dinner plate when the first crack of thunder shakes the windows. The lights flicker once. Twice. Then steady.

I dry my hands. Hang the towel on the oven handle. Walk to the living room and stand at the window. Rain hammers the glass in sheets. Lightning splits the sky white.

My stomach cramps.

Not bad at first. Just a tightness below my ribs. I press my palm there and breathe through it. It passes.

I turn away from the window. Take three steps toward the bedroom.

Then the pain hits.

It's not a cramp anymore. It's a fist closing inside me. Twisting. My knees buckle. I grab the back of the sofa and hold on. Breathe. Breathe. The room tilts sideways.

I make it to the kitchen. Brace myself against the counter. My phone is charging by the microwave. I unplug it with shaking hands. Unlock it. Find Barrett's name.

The call rings. Once. Twice. Three times.

Four.

He answers. His voice is low. Annoyed. "Hope? What's wrong?"

"I need you to come home." My voice comes out thin. "Something's wrong. My stomach—"

"Can it wait? I'm in the middle of something."

Another wave of pain. I double over. The phone nearly slips from my hand. "Barrett, please. I think I need to go to the ER."

A pause. I hear something in the background. A soft female voice. Leilany.

"Hope, listen." His voice drops to a whisper. "Leilany's terrified of storms. She can't be alone right now. Just take some Tums, okay? If it's still bad in the morning, we'll deal with it."

I stare at the floor. Water from my hair drips onto the tile. I didn't realize I was sweating.

"Barrett—"

"I have to go. Try to get some sleep."

The line goes dead.

I stand there holding the phone. Thunder rolls overhead. The pain twists deeper.

I slide down the cabinet to the floor. Press my forehead to my knees. Count to sixty. Then sixty again.

Eleven minutes pass before I can stand.

I call a cab.

---

The driver doesn't ask questions. I give him the address and lean my head against the window. The glass is cold. It helps.

Rain blurs the city into streaks of light. Red taillights. Yellow cabs. The green glow of a pharmacy sign. I close my eyes and breathe through my mouth.

The cab pulls up to Mount Sinai's ER entrance. I pay. Tip too much. Stumble through the automatic doors into fluorescent brightness.

The triage nurse takes my vitals. Blood pressure high. Pulse elevated. Pain scale eight out of ten.

"Any vomiting?"

"No."

"When did it start?"

"Half an hour ago."

She types into her computer. "We'll get you in as soon as we can. Take a seat."

I sit in a plastic chair bolted to the floor. Press my palm to my stomach. The pain is duller now. Or maybe I'm just getting used to it.

Twenty minutes later, a nurse calls my name. Leads me through double doors into a hallway lined with curtained bays. She pulls one open. "Change into this. The doctor will be with you soon."

I put on the gown. Lie down on the narrow bed. Stare at the ceiling tiles. Count them. One, two, three, four.

Voices drift from across the hall. I turn my head. Through the gap in the curtain opposite mine, I see them.

Barrett. Still in his scrubs. Crouched on the floor.

Leilany sits on the edge of a bed. One foot extended. A tiny scrape on her heel. Maybe the size of a dime.

Barrett's hands cradle her ankle. His thumbs move in slow circles. His face is soft. Concerned. The way it used to look when I told him about a bad day at work.

"Does this hurt?" he murmurs.

"A little," she says. Her voice is small. Helpless.

"You're going to be fine. I promise."

He leans closer. Brushes his thumb over the scrape. She winces. He murmurs something I can't hear.

I watch for four seconds.

Then I reach up. Pull my curtain closed.

I lie back down. Fold my hands on my stomach. Stare at the ceiling.

Something inside me that was still warm goes cold. Not all at once. Slowly. Like water freezing from the edges in.

I don't cry.

I don't move.

I just lie there in the fluorescent silence and feel the last piece of my marriage turn to ice.

When the doctor finally comes, I answer his questions in a calm, clear voice. Yes, the pain is better. No, I don't need imaging. Yes, I can follow up with my primary care.

He discharges me with instructions to avoid spicy food and manage stress.

I almost laugh.

I dress. Sign the paperwork. Walk back through the ER waiting room. Barrett is at the nurse's station now. Laughing with a resident. He doesn't see me.

I push through the automatic doors into the rain.

The storm has passed. The streets are wet and black and empty.

I stand on the curb. Pull out my phone. Open my Notes app.

I type: *ER. Alone. He chose her scrape over my emergency. Saw them together. Hands on her ankle. Face I used to know.*

I save it. Close the app.

Then I get in a cab and go home.

The apartment is dark when I arrive. I don't turn on the lights. I walk to the bedroom. Lie down on top of the covers.

My stomach still aches. But it's nothing compared to the cold clarity spreading through my chest.

Six weeks until the Golden Mic Awards.

I close my eyes.

I can wait six weeks.