My Husband Made Me Cook For His Pregnant Mistress

Jonathan's truck pulled into the driveway at four in the afternoon. I was folding laundry in the living room. I set down the towel I was holding and walked to the window.

He got out first. Stretched. Ran a hand through his hair. Then he opened the passenger door.

She stepped out slowly. Carefully. One hand braced against the truck's frame. The other resting on the curve of her belly.

Her dress was cream-colored. Silk. It draped perfectly over her bump. Her shoes were heels. Expensive ones. Her hair was glossy and dark, pulled back in a low twist.

She looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine.

Jonathan carried her suitcase up the walk. She followed, moving with the deliberate grace of someone who knew she was being watched.

I opened the door before they knocked.

"Em." Jonathan's smile was wide. Easy. He set the suitcase down and pulled me into a hug. "God, I missed you."

I stood still. Let him hold me. Stepped back when he released me.

"This is Aylin," he said.

She smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.

"Thank you for having me," she said softly. "I know this is... unexpected."

Her voice was warm. Practiced. The kind of warmth that came with a script.

"Of course," I said. "Come in."

Jonathan dropped his duffel bag on the couch. Kicked off his boots. Walked straight to the kitchen and opened the fridge.

"What's for dinner?" he called.

Aylin stood in the center of the living room. She turned slowly. Looked at the bookshelf. The photos on the mantel. The throw pillows I'd sewn last winter.

Her gaze was unhurried. Assessing.

Like she was cataloguing what she intended to own.

"I'll start cooking soon," I said.

She smiled again. "I'd love to freshen up first. It was a long drive."

I led her upstairs. Opened the guest room door. Fresh sheets. Clean towels on the dresser. A vase of flowers by the window.

She glanced inside. Then looked past me. Down the hall.

"Which one is yours?" she asked.

I didn't answer.

She walked past me. Opened the door to the master bedroom. Stepped inside.

"Oh," she said. "This is lovely."

She crossed to the bed. Sat down. Ran her hand over the quilt.

Then she lay back. Arms spread. Eyes closed. A soft, contented sigh.

"This mattress," she murmured. "It's exactly as comfortable as you always described, Jonathan."

Her voice carried down the hall.

Jonathan appeared at the top of the stairs. He glanced at me. Then at Aylin.

"Babe, maybe use the guest room for now," he said. "Let Em get settled."

Aylin sat up slowly. Smiled at him. "Of course. I'm sorry. I just needed to lie down for a moment."

She stood. Walked past me. Trailed her fingers along the hallway wall as she went.

I picked up the stack of clean towels I'd left on the shelf. Carried them downstairs. Set them on the kitchen counter.

Jonathan followed me down.

"She's been through a lot," he said quietly. "Try to be patient."

I said nothing.

I started pulling ingredients from the fridge. Tomatoes. Onions. Garlic. I set them on the cutting board.

The knife was sharp. I wasn't paying attention.

The blade slipped. Cut clean across my palm.

Blood welled up immediately. Bright red. Dripping onto the cutting board.

I grabbed a dish towel. Wrapped it tight. The fabric darkened fast.

Jonathan leaned against the counter. Scrolling through his phone.

"Hey," he said. "Aylin mentioned she's been craving bouillabaisse. Think you could make that?"

I looked at him.

He didn't look up.

"She said it's the only thing that doesn't make her nauseous," he added. "Pregnancy cravings, you know?"

The towel around my hand was soaked through.

Bouillabaisse.

The dish I'd spent weeks perfecting. Testing the recipe over and over. Driving to the fish market in freezing rain. Burning my forearm on the stockpot. All because he'd mentioned once, years ago, that it was his favorite.

I unwrapped the towel. Looked at the cut. It was deep. Still bleeding.

I wrapped it again. Tighter.

Then I turned back to the counter.

"Sure," I said.

Jonathan smiled. "You're the best, Em."

He walked back upstairs.

I stood alone in the kitchen. The towel around my hand was heavy. Wet. My palm throbbed.

I pulled out the stockpot. Set it on the stove. Started chopping onions with my good hand.

Upstairs, I heard Aylin laugh. Light. Musical.

I kept chopping.

The blood seeped through the towel. Dripped onto the counter. I wiped it away with a paper towel. Kept working.

The house smelled like garlic and tomatoes. Like saffron and white wine.

Like every promise I'd ever kept that no one had bothered to remember.