Four Minute Phone Call Exposed My Husband and My Best Friend
“Thank you,” I said.
“You look a little pale, though,” he added, his brow furrowing with a sudden, intense concern. “Are you sleeping any better?”
“A bit,” I said, shifting my gaze to the window where the rain was streaking the glass.
“I spoke to Dr. Harrison yesterday,” he said, referring to the grief counselor he had insisted I see after the last miscarriage. “He thinks we are making progress.”
My fingers tightened around the stem of my glass. “Does he?”
“He does,” Richard said, leaning back as the waiter set down our appetizers. “He says these things take time, but the structure is important.”
I watched him slice into a piece of seared carpaccio, his movements precise and effortless. “What kind of structure, Richard?”
“Just a routine, sweetheart,” he said, chewing. “Keeping track of the daily patterns, making sure we document the good days and the bad ones.”
He pulled a small black notebook from his breast pocket, the one he always carried for property notes, and scribbled something down with a silver pen.
“Are you writing down my symptoms?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light.
