He never came up there. Not once. Not even when I begged.
I left my engine idling and crept around to the side window. My boots barely made a sound on the pine needles. Maybe he had planned something sweet. A surprise? Or maybe I was just overthinking.
I pressed my forehead to the glass and looked inside.
Liam was on the couch with his shoes off, a beer in his hand, and a smile on his face.
Next to him was a woman I’d never seen before. Maybe late 20s, legs tucked under her like she lived there. She was laughing, leaning in, her head tilted just slightly in the way women do when they want to be looked at. And he was looking.
A couple cuddling on the couch | Source: Pexels
I didn’t make a sound. My breath stilled. My vision blurred just around the edges.
I backed away slowly, heart drumming hard but dull. Got in the car and drove back without touching the radio.
That night, I cleaned the kitchen as if it had insulted me. I scrubbed the sink until my knuckles hurt. I made dinner and left it on the stove. I didn’t cry.
The next day, I bought three wireless cameras: small, black, and discreet. I placed one on the porch, one facing the driveway, and one aimed straight through the living room window. I told myself it was for safety.
“If you ever get a break-in…” I mumbled into the mirror, a toothbrush hanging from my mouth.
The cameras showed everything. I didn’t have to wait long.
That Friday night, his car appeared again. Then hers. It was a different woman this time. She was slim, tall, and wore a long red coat.
A woman in a trendy red coat and matching pants looking at someone | Source: Pexels
He ushered her inside, displaying practiced courtesy. They laughed and sat close together. She slipped off her shoes as if she had done it before.
He had a pattern. Every week, there was a new face, a new woman, but always the same routine. Their voices stayed soft. There was always wine. The touches were never clumsy. They were rehearsed. Once, a man came with them. I think he was a coworker. He brought a six-pack and smiled like the whole thing was a game.
But it was the notebook that made everything real.
One night, I stopped by Liam’s home office to grab a sweater. The room smelled of his cologne and coffee. I shouldn’t have opened the notebook on his desk, but I did.
It wasn’t a journal. It was a ledger.
Close-up shot of a man holding his eyeglasses while sitting in his home office | Source: Pexels
Names. Initials. Ratings.
“7/10: good laugh, fun in the kitchen.”
“8/10: brings wine, stays late. Quiet.”
The last page was titled, “Top Picks / Best ‘Getaway.'”
I felt my hands go ice-cold. I filmed every page with my phone. My mouth was dry.
When I sat on the edge of his desk, I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t even angry. I felt… hollow.
This wasn’t a man cheating. This was a man cataloging, ranking, and playing.
I didn’t confront him. I didn’t scream. My mom used to say, “If you’re going to act, then act like you mean it. Quiet and clean.” So that’s what I did.
I kissed him hello, made dinner, and even asked about his meetings.
He called me “unflappable.” Said it like I was a prize.
When he suggested a weekend getaway at the cabin, saying, “Just us, babe. No phones. Reconnect,” I said yes.
Close-up shot of a couple toasting with wine glasses | Source: Pexels
“Sounds good,” I said, smiling just enough.
