That would have been far too simple.
If I confronted Carter before he left, he would cry, deny everything, blame loneliness, call it a mistake, and beg for counseling. He would transform my pain into a negotiation.
No.
I wanted him to arrive.
I wanted him standing beneath the golden glow of that seven-star fantasy beside Vanessa, both dressed for luxury, both ready to spend my money, only to discover that the wife he underestimated had locked the vault.
Sunday night arrived, and Carter packed.
He laid his suitcase across our bed and moved around the bedroom whistling.
Whistling.
I folded laundry in the corner while watching him pack cologne, linen pants, sunglasses, swim trunks, and the white shirt I had bought him for our anniversary.
“Denver must be warmer than I remember,” I remarked.
