Four Minute Phone Call Exposed My Husband and My Best Friend
“No,” I said, pulling my hands back gently. “I am going to drop off some fresh vegetables and tea at her apartment tonight anyway. I promised her I would help her sort through some baby things. I want to tell her myself.”
“Alright,” he said, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across his face. “Tell her we will go out for a nice lunch afterward. My treat.”
“I’ll tell her,” I said.
I picked up my purse and walked back out to the car. The rain had turned into a thick, clinging fog that hung low over the streets of Capitol Hill as I drove toward Monica’s apartment building.
The building was an older brick mid-rise, the hallway smelling of cabbage and floor wax. When I knocked on the door of unit 2B, I could hear the muffled sound of a television inside before the lock clicked.
Monica opened the door, her hand immediately rising to her collarbone as she saw me standing on the landing with a grocery bag.
“Laura,” she said, her voice trailing off in that soft, nervous lilt. “You should have called. I thought you were resting today.”
