Three years into my marriage with Alex, I started to think about divorce. My best friend, Chloe, thought I was insane. “He’s literally one in a million, Thea. What could possibly be wrong?” Alex was the perfect husband. I couldn't find a single fault. I just gave her a tired smile and asked her to play a game with me. “Send your husband a text,” I said. “Tell him you’re not coming home tonight.” 1 [Not coming home tonight.] I typed the words into my chat with Alex. My thumb hovered for a few seconds before I pressed send. I showed the "delivered" message to Chloe. “Don’t add anything else. Just that.” “You know what Mark is like. He’s going to call me instantly.” Chloe scoffed, pulling out her own phone. “Fine. Sent. Now what?” And then— Her phone immediately rang. “See? I told you,” she said, rolling her eyes affectionately as she put him on speaker. “Why aren't you coming home, babe? Are you still with Thea? Is she the one who doesn't want to go home? You can bring her here, you know. Or… are you staying at her place?” A rapid-fire string of questions, one after another. “I’m kidding! Of course I’m coming home. Thea just wanted to play a game…” Chloe quickly explained, her voice melting into a playful purr. “But honey, it’s pouring rain out, and it’s impossible to get a cab. Can you come pick us up?” She was glowing. That soft, easy affection of a woman who knows, without a doubt, that she is cherished. “Of course, babe. I’m putting my shoes on now. Don't move. I’m on my way.” The reply was just as disgustingly sweet. I smiled, listening to them, and drained my wine glass. My own phone finally buzzed. A new message. [Okay. Have fun.] From Alex. 2 I declined Chloe and Mark’s offer to wait for them and called my own Uber. The rain was getting worse. By the time I ran from the curb to my front door, I was soaked and miserable. It was rare to see him in here. The long, ten-foot-long dining table was covered in case files, spread out like a military map. Alex was at the far end, sitting perfectly straight, staring at his laptop. His shirtsleeves were neatly rolled, revealing strong, toned forearms. His gold-rimmed glasses softened the intensity of his gaze. The antique chandelier above cast a warm, yellow light, making him look softer than he was. I paused in the entryway. That table. I’d had it custom-made before we got married. It was wide enough to hold all my research when I was deep in a script. It was my workspace. Alex is a man of rigid order. In his world, dining tables are for dining. Work is for the study. This was the first time I’d ever seen him use this table for anything other than a meal. He’d just made senior partner. It must have been a massive case. I didn't want to disturb him. I wiped the rain from my face and quietly toed off my shoes. As I put them away, I accidentally kicked the cabinet. The sound made him look up. He saw me and immediately closed his laptop. He didn't ask why I was home. He didn't ask if I was wet from the rain. He didn't ask where I’d been or what I’d had for dinner. He just started stacking his files. “Sorry. I’ll move to the study.” His voice was polite. Apologetic. Like a guest who had accidentally wandered into the master bedroom. I watched him. That tiny, strange flicker of warmth I’d felt seeing him there... it just vanished. “It’s fine,” I said, my voice tight. “I’m not working tonight. I had a few drinks. You can stay.” Alex knows I’m allergic to most alcohol. I never drink. He looked at my damp hair, his eyes narrowing for a fraction of a second, as if he was analyzing a piece of evidence. But he didn't ask. He just put down the files he’d gathered and gave a short nod. “Okay. You should get some rest.” 3 Maybe it was the alcohol, or the cold rain. I couldn't even stand for the whole shower. I ended up sliding down the tiled wall, letting the water hit me. It felt lukewarm by the time it reached my shoulders. I shivered but didn't have the energy to stand up. Alex is the perfect husband. Everyone says so. Good family, great job, handsome. His temperament and character are flawless. My graduate advisor introduced us. “Thea, I’m telling you, you could search the world and not find another man as good as Alex. He’s a unicorn. One in a million.” My advisor was a notoriously difficult man. Hearing him praise someone like that… I was intrigued. From the first time I saw Alex, my heart went haywire. He was reserved, quiet, but it was a true, 100% case of love at first sight for me. He was the one who pursued me, and I found our values aligned perfectly. It felt like destiny. We went from first date to marriage in six months. His mother adored me. The first time I met her, she held my hands and cried. “Thank you for loving my Alex. Thank you, dear.” My parents were even happier. Every friend who met him said the same thing: “You must have saved a country in a past life to deserve a man like that.” I used to believe it, too. I’m high-energy. I love to work out. Before I even moved in, he had our basement converted into a full gym for me. Every piece of equipment was calibrated to my height. When I stopped using the rowing machine for a few months, he quietly had it replaced with a newer model. The smart speaker plays my workout playlist the second I walk downstairs. The media room's download queue is always full of films I’d like. I’m a writer. I work at night. Alex is a light sleeper. To accommodate my schedule, he just… adapted. He started sleeping with an eye mask and earplugs. Every holiday, every anniversary, there are flowers and perfect, thoughtful gifts. Every time he travels for work, he brings back something I'll love. If I’m in a creative funk, he’ll come home with my favorite pastry. “Eat something sweet. You’ll feel better.” He is so, so perfect. His kindness is tangible, practical. He’s too good for me. That's what I used to think. Knock, knock. A soft tapping on the bathroom door. I’d been in here too long. I struggled to my feet. “Just a minute!” I saw his shadow pause at the frosted glass, then turn and walk away. He didn't say anything. The alcohol I’d washed away came roaring back. I grabbed a towel, threw on my robe, and yanked the door open. I froze. Alex was standing just to the left of the door, waiting. His expression was calm, but he was clearly waiting for me. Like he had something to say. 4 I felt a strange, tight knot of anticipation in my chest. In that split second, I ran through a dozen scenarios. If he asked, “Are you upset about something?” If he said, “You know you’re allergic. You shouldn't be drinking.” If he got angry, “Why did you text that you weren't coming home and then show up in the rain?” I knew if he showed any of that, any emotion, I would have burst into tears. I would have used the alcohol as an excuse to finally, finally ask him the question that had been poisoning my marriage. But after a beat of silence, Alex just said, in a level tone: “My father called. He wants to go out for seafood.” “I have court in the morning. I’ll pick you up after.” His expression was neutral. He was just here to pass on a message. I clutched the lapels of my robe. I felt like an over-inflated balloon that had just been pricked. My grandfather has Alzheimer’s. He forgets everyone. Except, for some reason, Alex, whom he adores. “...It's fine.” My voice came out as a croak. “Just text me the address. I’ll drive myself.” I rarely say no to Alex. Especially not to things like this—him going out of his way to pick me up, a small, public display of our perfect, happy marriage. He looked at me, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. But he didn't ask. He just watched me for a few seconds. “Okay,” he said, and turned to walk away. 5 The next day, I drove to the restaurant. It was a full family lunch. Both sets of parents. My grandfather was having a bad day and had a fistful of Alex’s shirt, refusing to let go. Alex, unfazed, was patiently shelling shrimp for him, his face a mask of perfect calm. My mom and his mom were in deep conversation. “We’re both turning sixty next year. If you two don’t give us a grandchild soon, we’ll be too old to babysit!” “She’s right. You’ve been married three years. It’s time to get serious.” Alex placed the bowl of shrimp in front of my grandfather, then shelled one more and put it in my bowl. He smiled at our mothers. “We’re trying.” His tone was sincere. His expression was serious. It worked. The moms were satisfied. The table became lively again. I looked down at the pale, perfect shrimp in my bowl. A wave of nausea hit me. I pressed my lips together, but it was no use. I covered my mouth, stood up, and ran to the restroom. 6 The second I was out of my chair, I heard my mom’s excited shriek. “Oh my goodness! She’s been so quiet all day! Do you think… is it morning sickness?” Alex’s mom was right behind her. “Alex, why didn't you tell us? Go check on her, go!” I locked the door and retched into the sink. I stared at my pale reflection in the mirror for a long time before I finally unlocked the door. I almost ran right into Alex. He was standing there, holding a glass of warm water. His face was... dark. We stared at each other. It was, bizarrely, the first time I’d ever seen him look truly, unequivocally angry. He never gets angry. He never gets sad. He is a perfectly calibrated machine. At home, he’s a ghost. He never shares his day. He never asks about mine. If I’m bursting with a new story idea and force him to listen, he will. He'll listen intently, his expression perfectly neutral. And when I’m done, he’ll say, "That's great, Thea," and that’s all. Unless I press him. Then he’ll say, “As long as it makes you happy.” "What do you want for dinner?" "Whatever you want." "When should we see my parents?" "Whatever works for you." It’s funny. Before Alex, I’d never been in a serious relationship. It wasn’t until I saw Chloe and Mark, how they bicker and laugh and live together, that I realized how abnormal my own marriage was. I'd tried to ask him about it. Once. It was a Wednesday, our... scheduled night. He was, as always, efficient and focused. As he reached for the nightstand drawer, where the condoms were, I stopped him. His mom had been relentless about a baby. “My mother,” he’d said, hesitating, “would like us to have a child.” We were both healthy. We were perfect candidates. I’d been ready since day one. But he had never, ever seemed interested. Until that night. “A child,” he said. I thought he was finally ready. But as he moved over me, his breathing was even, his technique flawless, but his eyes... his eyes were empty. There was no passion. I put my hand on his chest. “Alex, did you marry me just to check a box? Is this... is this just another task to complete?” I was so terrified of the answer, I stopped breathing. His expression was... interesting. A flicker of surprise. And then, something that looked almost like... relief. He was silent. Then, he performed the necessary "task" to create a child, withdrew, and went to the bathroom. He came back out wearing his pajama pants. “You’re overthinking it, Thea. Get some sleep.” He closed the door. The bedroom was silent. But in my ears, I just heard the echo of a door slamming shut.
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