My Husband's "Assistant"

Just like I thought last night.

Out of all the interns from six months ago, she stood out. Like a little sunbeam—bright, bubbly, fake as hell.

Always orbiting around me, all, "Peyton, can I ask you something?" with those wide, innocent eyes. Pretending to need advice about "relationships." Please.

And I told her—smiling, clueless—"You get what you give."

Guess I gave her my marriage.

Don't know what hit me, but I grabbed my phone and deleted those two messages.

Then I just sat there. Quiet. Numb. Waiting for Matthew to come home like a total fool.

Midnight crept in. I kept calling. Straight to voicemail.

Time ticked past twelve. My legs were completely numb when the door finally opened.

"Baby, I'm so sorry," Matthew said, like nothing was on fire. "I dropped the cake on the way back, had to get another one made. Took a bit longer. Happy birthday!"

He held up the cake like it was some grand gesture. Then pulled out a dainty little gift box.

Diamond bracelet. Just like last year's—same energy, slightly tweaked design.

I held out my wrist so he could clasp it on. Smiled. Let tears blur my vision.

At least he still put effort into the lie. At least I got something. Yay me.

I pretended everything was fine. Helped him cut the cake. We lit two candles—for two years of marriage.

Then I saw it. The fruit.

Mango.

I froze.

Matthew noticed instantly. "What's wrong?"

He asked again. And again. But my heart had already dropped into the abyss.

Back in high school, our teacher brought a giant mango cake to celebrate the SATs. Everyone lost it, smearing cake everywhere like it was a food fight from a coming-of-age movie.

It was fun—meant to be good luck.

Matthew joined in—smeared it right across my face.

Too bad I'm allergic to mango.

I ended up in the hospital for a week, face swollen beyond recognition.

He cried back then. Literally sobbed. Held my swollen face and promised:

"I'll remember everything. From now on, what matters to you matters to me."

And he meant it. When he couldn't even afford a decent phone, he stuck post-its all over his desk.

[Peyton doesn't eat cilantro.]

[Peyton hates ginger.]

[Peyton likes spicy and sour.]

[Peyton is allergic to mango.]

When he finally got a smartphone, those notes became his lock screen.

But now? His lock screen's the default one. Blank. Like I never existed.

When did that change?

Probably around the time Vivian Blake started calling him 'Matt.'

"Peyton?"

His voice snapped me out of it. Still soft. Still concerned.

And despite everything—despite knowing better—his face still made my chest ache.

"I'm fine," I said.

He didn't believe me. Of course he didn't. Pulled me into a hug, whispering, "It's okay. You can tell me anything. If something's wrong, I'll fix it. But if you don't say it, how will I know?"

For a second, I nearly told him.

But I didn't.

I just smiled.

And shook my head.