My Husband Thought a Gambler Was His Pregnant Lover

I didn't sleep that night. I lay on top of the covers in the guest room with my shoes still on and stared at the ceiling. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of pipes. Ashton had gone to bed in our room—his room now, I guess—without saying another word. Patricia had left an hour earlier with her tote bag full of my things and a satisfied little smile.

I thought about crying. It seemed like the thing you were supposed to do. But nothing came. Just that cold, still feeling spreading through my chest like frost on glass.

Around midnight I heard him get up. Footsteps in the hallway. The study door closing. I sat up and swung my legs off the bed. Walked to the hallway in my bare feet. The apartment was dark except for the thin line of light under the study door.

I stood outside it and listened.

His voice came through low and soft. The kind of voice he used to use with me. Back when things were different. Back when I thought they were real.

"I know, baby. I know it's hard." A pause. "No, she signed everything. Well—she will. Tomorrow. It's almost done."

I pulled my phone out of my pocket. Opened the voice memo app. Hit record. Held it up near the door.

"I can't wait either," he said. His voice went even softer. Tender. "I think about you all the time. You and the baby. Our baby." He laughed a little. The kind of laugh that made my stomach turn. "I already picked out names. If it's a boy, I was thinking—yeah. Yeah, exactly. You get me."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"The wedding? Soon as the paperwork clears. I want to do it right. You deserve that. You deserve everything." His voice cracked just slightly. Like he was getting emotional. "I love you, Lily. I love you so much."

I stopped the recording. Slipped the phone back in my pocket. Walked back to the guest room and sat on the edge of the bed with my hands folded in my lap. I didn't feel sad anymore. I didn't feel anything except a strange, sharp clarity.

Ashton fell asleep around two. I waited until his snoring started—deep and even, the way it always did after he'd had wine—then I went back into the hallway. I pushed open the study door. His phone was on the desk, screen down, charging cable plugged in.

I picked it up. No passcode. He'd stopped using one six months ago. Said it was a hassle.

I opened his contacts. Scrolled to the L's. There it was. Lily ❤️. I tapped the number. Held my breath. It rang twice and went to voicemail. A man's voice. Gruff. Tired. "You've reached Lucky Larry's. Leave a message."

I hung up. Opened Google. Typed in the number. The first result was a business listing. Lucky Larry's Poker Parlor. Queens.

I put the phone back exactly where I found it. Went back to the guest room. Lay down on top of the covers and watched the window turn gray with morning.

I left the apartment at nine. Ashton was still asleep. I didn't tell him where I was going. I took the subway to Queens and walked four blocks to a low brick building with a neon sign in the window that said POKER in red letters. The door was propped open with a cinderblock.

Inside it smelled like stale beer and air conditioning. There were three card tables and a long counter in the back. A man stood behind it watching a baseball game on a small TV mounted to the wall. He was maybe forty-seven. Heavyset. Thinning hair. Short-sleeved button-down shirt with the top button undone. He had a can of Bud Light in one hand.

I walked up to the counter. He glanced over. "Help you?"

"I'm looking for someone," I said. "Ashton Cole. Do you know him?"

He squinted. Scratched his jaw. "The guy who always bluffs on a pair of nines?" He nodded slowly. "Yeah. I know him. Why?"

I looked at him for a long moment. At his belly pressing against his shirt. At the beer in his hand. At the baseball game flickering behind him.

"No reason," I said. "Just wanted to make sure I had the right person."

He shrugged. "He comes in Thursdays mostly. Loses bad. Nice enough guy though."

"Yeah," I said quietly. "Nice enough."

I walked back outside into the heat and the noise of Queens traffic. I stood on the sidewalk and pulled out my phone. Scrolled to Parker Lawson's name. Pressed call.

He picked up on the second ring. "Marley?"

"I need to talk to you," I said. My voice was steady. Calm. "Can you meet me tonight?"

"Of course. What's going on?"

I watched a bus roll past. A woman with a stroller. A man selling flowers from a cart.

"I need your help," I said. "And I need you to not ask me if I'm sure."

There was a pause. Then: "What do you need?"

I closed my eyes. Opened them.

"Everything."