My Husband Thought a Gambler Was His Pregnant Lover

I went back to Queens on a Tuesday. Same brick building. Same neon sign. Same cinderblock holding the door open.

Larry was behind the counter again. Different shirt. Same beer. He looked up when I walked in and his face did something—not quite recognition, but close.

"You again," he said.

I walked up to the counter and set my bag down. "I need to ask you something."

He muted the TV. Turned to face me fully. "Okay."

"My husband has been telling people you're his girlfriend. That your name is Lily. That you're pregnant with his baby."

Larry stared at me. Blinked twice. Looked down at his stomach. Looked back up.

"Lady," he said slowly. "I'm a dude."

"I know."

"And I ain't pregnant."

"I know that too."

He scratched his jaw. "Your husband's the guy who bluffs on nines?"

"Yes."

"Huh." He took a sip of beer. Set it down. "That's weird."

"I need you to say that on camera," I said. "Just confirm who you are. That you've never had a romantic relationship with Ashton Cole. That you're not anyone's girlfriend. I'll pay you."

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he shrugged. "How much?"

"Five hundred."

"Cash?"

"Cash."

He nodded. "Yeah, okay. You want me to say I'm not somebody's girlfriend, I can do that."

We shook hands. His palm was warm and a little damp. He smelled like Old Spice and fryer oil.

"When?" he asked.

"I'll let you know."

I left the parlor and stood on the sidewalk in the heat. Pulled out my phone. Texted Parker. *It's done. He'll cooperate.*

The reply came back in thirty seconds. *Good. Bring the signed consent form as soon as you have it. I'll file the intake paperwork immediately.*

I took the subway home. The car was crowded. I stood near the doors and held the pole and watched the tunnel lights flicker past. A woman next to me was reading a romance novel. The cover showed a shirtless man holding a woman in a ballgown. I looked away.

Ashton came home that Thursday around seven. I heard him before I saw him—his voice in the hallway, low and warm. He was on the phone. He walked through the door still talking.

"I know, baby. I know. Just a few more days." He glanced at me. Smiled. Kept talking. "The papers are almost done. Then we can do this right. The way you deserve."

He hung up. Slipped the phone into his pocket. Looked at the kitchen table.

The divorce papers were laid out in a neat stack. A black pen on top.

He walked over. Picked up the pen. Looked at me.

"You ready?" he asked.

I nodded. Kept my voice soft. Defeated. "I just want this done."

He sat down. Pulled the stack toward him. Flipped the first page. Skimmed it. Flipped the second. Signed at the bottom. Flipped the third. Signed again.

I stood by the counter and watched. My heart was beating steady and slow. My hands were still.

He got to page seven. Page ten. Page twelve. He paused and looked up at me. Smirked.

"See?" he said. "This doesn't have to be dramatic."

He turned to page fourteen. The consent form. Voluntary Admission for Psychiatric Evaluation. He didn't read it. Just signed at the bottom. Flipped to the next page.

I watched his pen cross the signature line. Watched the ink settle into the paper. Felt nothing at all.

He finished page twenty-three. Set the pen down. Leaned back in the chair.

"There," he said. "All done. That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"No," I said quietly. "Not bad at all."

He stood. Stretched. Picked up his phone. "I'm going out. Meeting some people for drinks. Don't wait up."

He left. The door closed behind him. I walked to the table. Picked up the stack of papers. Held them in both hands.

Page fourteen. His signature. Clear. Confident. Legal.

I took a photo. Sent it to Parker. He replied immediately. *Perfect. I'll have the team on standby. Let me know when.*

I set the papers in my bag. Zipped it closed.

Over the next three days, Ashton became someone I didn't recognize. He hummed in the shower. He bought a new suit. Charcoal. Italian cut. He hung it in the closet and stood back to admire it.

"For the wedding," he said when he caught me looking.

He made reservations at a restaurant in Tribeca. Called his mother and told her to start planning the engagement party. I heard him through the wall.

"No, Mom. I want it elegant. She deserves elegant. Lily deserves everything."

Patricia's voice came through the phone. High. Excited. I couldn't make out the words but I could hear the tone. Triumph. Satisfaction.

I sat at the desk in the guest room with my notebook open. Wrote down the date. The restaurant name. The suit. The phone calls. Every detail.

Parker texted me on Saturday. *Everything's in place. The team can move Monday morning. Confirm the address and time window.*

I texted back. *Monday. 9 a.m. He'll be getting ready to leave. He'll be wearing the suit.*

*Understood. I'll be there personally.*

I set the phone down. Looked at the notebook. At the pages filled with dates and quotes and observations. Five years of marriage reduced to evidence.

I closed the notebook. Put it in my bag with the signed papers.

Ashton knocked on the door Sunday night. "Marley?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm heading out early tomorrow. Big day." He laughed a little. "Wish me luck."

I didn't answer. I listened to his footsteps fade. Listened to him humming in the bedroom. Listened to the apartment settle into silence.

I didn't sleep. I sat on the edge of the bed with the lights off and waited for morning.