Her Secret Shame, His Public Affair

On my wedding night, my new husband, Jameson, was blackout drunk. My best friend of twenty years, Caren, texted me practical advice: give him honey water and let him sleep it off.

But just as he quieted down, he pulled me close, his breath hot on my neck. "I love you so, so much, Caren," he whispered. Then I saw it. A tattoo I'd never seen before, a single letter 'C' inked directly over his heart.

The next morning, my birthday, Caren showed up with a cake, her smile as sweet as poison. After one bite, my throat began to close. Peanuts. She knew I was deathly allergic.

As I gasped for air, Jameson's first instinct wasn't to help me, but to defend her. He stood between us, his face a mask of fury. "What is your problem with her?" he demanded, blind to the fact that his wife was suffocating in front of him.

I stumbled, trying to reach my EpiPen, but he grabbed my arm, yanking me back. "You are going to apologize to Caren right now!"

With the last of my strength, I slapped him across the face.

"I'm pregnant," I rasped. "And I can't breathe."

Chapter 1

My wedding night was supposed to be perfect, but Jameson was impossibly drunk. He could barely stand, slurring his words as our friends guided him into the hotel suite. The door clicked shut, leaving us in a silence that felt too loud.

I looked at him, slumped on the edge of our king-sized bed, and a wave of helplessness washed over me. This wasn't the man I'd just married. This was a stranger. My heart ached for him, for the perfect night that was slipping away.

My phone buzzed. It was a text from Caren, my best friend for twenty years. He probably just had too much, Lana. Give him some honey water and let him sleep it off. He'll be fine in the morning.

I felt a blush creep up my neck. Caren always knew what to do. Her message, so practical, also held a hint of the night's expectations, and I felt a shy hope that things might still turn out okay.

I did as she said. I ordered honey water from room service and gently coaxed Jameson to drink it. He was pliant, like a child, doing whatever I asked without a fight.

Slowly, the frantic energy left him, and he settled down, his breathing evening out as he lay back against the pillows. He was finally quiet.

I picked up my phone again, wanting to text Caren back, to thank her for being the calm in my storm, just like she always was.

Suddenly, strong arms wrapped around me from behind, pulling me against a warm chest. Jameson wasn't asleep. His breath was hot on my neck.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice thick and broken. It wasn't the loving whisper of a new husband. It sounded like a confession torn from his soul.

"I love you so, so much, Caren."

The name hung in the air, a poison dart. He hadn't said Alanna. He'd said my best friend's name.

His shirt had fallen open in his drunken state. There, on the left side of his chest, directly over his heart, was a tattoo I'd never seen before.

It was a single, elegant letter 'C'.

My mind went blank. The world tilted, sounds faded into a dull roar in my ears. The man holding me, the room, the white dress hanging on the door-it all felt like a movie I was watching from a great distance.

C. Caren. The 'C' was for Caren.

It all clicked into place. The reason he got so drunk he couldn't function. The reason he looked past me at the reception, his eyes searching for someone else. He wasn't celebrating our union. He was mourning it.

I stood there, frozen in his arms, for what felt like an eternity. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.

Slowly, the feeling came back to my limbs, a cold dread seeping into my bones.

My phone vibrated again on the nightstand.

I pulled away from him, my movements stiff and robotic. He didn't notice, already lost to a drunken sleep.

I stared at the glowing screen.

The message was from Caren.

Is he okay? Did he give you a hard time? I just worry about you, Lana. He gets so emotional sometimes. Make sure he takes his stomach medicine in the morning, you know how he gets.

The message was long, a detailed list of instructions disguised as concern. It went on and on, each word a tiny, sharp jab.

I couldn't focus on the text. My vision blurred.

My mind flashed back through the years. Caren, always so helpful. Caren, calling a tow truck when Jameson's car broke down because I was stuck in a meeting. Caren, reminding me which antacids to buy for his sensitive stomach.

Caren, even giving me "advice" on our sex life, telling me what Jameson "might like," her tone so casual, so sisterly.

She was always so calm, so understanding, no matter what. She never got angry, never seemed to mind being my shadow, the helpful sidekick.

And I had been so grateful. So incredibly, stupidly grateful.

My teeth started to chatter, a violent tremor running through my body. The feeling of being played for a fool was a physical sickness, rising in my throat.

My phone buzzed again, relentlessly. A new message. Then another. Then it started ringing, Caren's picture filling the screen.

The sound echoed in the silent, opulent suite, a shrill alarm signaling a disaster.

I knew she wouldn't stop. Caren never stopped until she got what she wanted. It was a trait I used to admire as persistence. Now I saw it for what it was: a relentless, suffocating need for control.

I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of an answer. I wouldn't play her game.

Then, a different sound cut through the room. A soft, melodic chime. It was Jameson's phone. A custom ringtone. One I'd never heard before.

Jameson, who had been dead to the world, stirred instantly. His eyes snapped open.

He fumbled for his phone, his movements suddenly sharp and alert. He answered, quickly turning off the speakerphone, his back to me.

"Hey," he murmured, and the harsh lines on his face softened. The weak, drunk man was gone, replaced by someone gentle and attentive.

A low chuckle escaped his lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated happiness.

They were completely lost in their own world. He never once looked over his shoulder to see if I was there. He had forgotten his wife was in the room on their wedding night.

And Caren. Did she forget, too? Or did she just not care that she was calling my husband, at this hour, on this night?

The call stretched on, deep into the night. I just sat there, watching the man I married whisper sweet nothings to my best friend.

When he finally hung up, the smile still lingered on his lips. His eyes, full of a warmth I hadn't seen all day, finally found me.

He looked at me for a few seconds.

For a crazy moment, I thought he might say something. Apologize. Explain. Anything.

But reality crashed down, shattering the last of my dignity.

"Why didn't you answer Caren?" he asked, his voice laced with annoyance. "She was worried about you."

I heard something break inside me. It was a quiet, final sound.

"What?" I whispered, the word barely audible.

His face hardened. The brief softness he'd shown Caren vanished, replaced by cold irritation. It was like watching a mask drop.

"She called and texted you a bunch of times. She was just trying to help. Are you trying to make her feel bad?"

He talked about her so carefully, so tenderly. He knew she was sensitive. He knew she needed reassurance.

He knew everything about her.

But he had no idea what was happening to me.

I just stared at him. It was like seeing him for the first time. This handsome, successful man from a good family, my childhood sweetheart, was a complete stranger.

Maybe he saw the look on my face. Maybe some sliver of sobriety cut through the fog.

He winced and covered his face with his hand. "Lana, I'm sorry."

He moved toward me, reaching out to hold me. "I'm sorry, I'm just... I'm drunk."

I pressed my lips together, fighting back the tears that burned my eyes.

I gently pushed him away.

My finger shaking, I pointed to the 'C' on his chest.

"What is this, Jameson?"

He fell silent. He looked down at the tattoo, and for a moment, his eyes went distant, lost in a memory that didn't include me.

In that suffocating silence, I knew everything. I didn't need him to say a word.

I stood up and walked to the bathroom, my movements slow and deliberate. I wiped away the smeared makeup, my reflection a pale, hollow-eyed ghost.

When I came out, he was standing in my way, blocking the door.

He grabbed my arms, his grip desperate. "Lana, please."

"It's not what you think," he said, his voice ragged. "Caren and I, we're not... It was just a crush. A long time ago. It doesn't mean anything now."

"I'll get it removed," he pleaded. "Tomorrow. I'll get it covered up. Please, Lana. Don't be like this."

My body trembled. My mind was a chaotic storm of betrayal and pain.

Just then, my phone buzzed again. It wasn't Caren this time.

It was a text from my mom. Hope you two are having a wonderful night. Don't forget to take your heart medication before bed, sweetheart. Love you.

My mom. Her chronic heart condition. I couldn't tell her. Not now. The shock could be too much for her.

I looked at Jameson's desperate, pleading face.

In the dead silence of our wedding suite, I slowly nodded.

I slept on the very edge of the bed, a chasm of cold sheets between us. When Jameson' s arm draped over me in his sleep, I flinched and moved away, his touch feeling like a brand.

A vibration from my phone in the dark startled me. I didn't need to look. I knew who it was.

It was Caren. Did Jameson yell at you? I told him not to drink so much. If he was mean, you tell me, and I'll give him a piece of my mind.

The message was so perfectly crafted, a blend of concern and righteous anger on my behalf. But I could see the real question hiding beneath the words: Did he choose you or me?

A bitter, competitive fire I never knew I had surged through me.

I snapped a picture of Jameson, sleeping soundly beside me, his head on the pillow, looking for all the world like a contented husband.

I sent it to her. He's fine. Just tired. We're going to get that old tattoo of his covered up tomorrow. He says it's time to let go of the past.

For the first time all night, she didn't reply immediately.

I felt a sharp, vindictive pleasure. It was a hollow victory, but it was something.

My mind drifted back to when I first met Caren. She was the new girl in third grade, quiet and scared, her clothes a little too small, her shoes worn down at the heels. She lived with her single mom in a tiny apartment on the other side of town.

One day at lunch, she dropped her tray. I saw her trying not to cry as she picked up the spilled food. I walked over and gave her half of my sandwich.

From that day on, we were inseparable. I shared my lunch with her. My family' s generosity extended to her; my mom bought her new clothes when she saw Caren shivering in a thin coat, and my dad helped her mom find a better job.

Caren was always so grateful, her "thank yous" soft and sincere.

She got used to my food. She got used to my clothes.

And somewhere along the way, she got used to my boyfriend, too.

I lay in the dark, the memories cutting into me. Each act of kindness, each shared secret, was now tainted, twisted into something ugly.

I stared at the ceiling until the sun came up, tears silently tracking a path into my hair.

Later that day, we went to a tattoo parlor downtown. The air buzzed with the sound of needles.

"I'll grab you a coffee," Jameson said, his voice overly cheerful. He was trying so hard to be the perfect, attentive husband. He even set up an iPad for me with my favorite show. "This won't take long. Then we can get a nice dinner, just the two of us."

He disappeared into a back room with the tattoo artist.

I let out a breath I didn' t realize I was holding. Maybe we could fix this. Maybe he was telling the truth.

A moment later, he burst out of the room, his face pale with panic.

My heart skipped a beat.

"What is it? What's wrong?" I asked, grabbing his arm.

"It's Caren," he said, his voice tight. "She was in a car accident."

My brain short-circuited. An accident? Today? Now? It couldn' t be a coincidence. My gut screamed that it was another one of her games.

"I'll go," I said quickly. "You stay here and finish. She's my friend."

"No," he cut me off, his eyes wild. "I have to go. We can both go."

I stood my ground, not moving an inch. "No, Jameson."

I looked him straight in the eye. "She is my best friend. I will go check on her. You will stay here and do what you promised."

For a second, the world seemed to freeze.

Then I saw it. A flash of pure, undisguised disgust in his eyes. He wasn't looking at his wife. He was looking at an obstacle.

"Don't be so unreasonable, Alanna," he hissed. "Her car is totaled. She could be seriously hurt!"

He gestured wildly at his own chest. "This can wait! Or what, you want me to take a knife and cut it out right here?"

Before I could react, he grabbed a disposable razor from the artist's tray.

He held the blade to his own skin, right over the tattoo. "Is this what you want?"

"Okay!" I yelled, my voice cracking. "Fine. Go."

He stared at me, surprised by my sudden surrender. Then, without another word, he dropped the razor and ran out the door, leaving me standing there with the bewildered tattoo artist.

I walked out of the shop, my face a mask of calm.

As if on cue, the sky opened up. A cold, hard rain began to fall, soaking me to the bone in seconds.

I hailed a cab and went home. The whole way, I shivered. I sneezed.

A wave of nausea hit me as I walked through the door of our new, empty house.

My phone lit up with a stream of messages.

It was Caren. She'd sent a picture. She was lying in a hospital bed, looking pale and pitiful, with a small bandage on her forehead. Jameson was sitting by her side, holding her hand.

Thank you for letting Jameson come, Lana. He's taking such good care of me.

A second message followed. I guess he didn't get that tattoo removed after all?

I couldn't even describe the feeling. It was beyond anger, beyond pain.

The screen of my phone reflected my face, my expression perfectly calm.

I was the clown in their circus.

And in that moment, I felt a strange sense of release. I was finally, completely, done.

I went upstairs and ran a hot bath, letting the water wash over me.

The phone rang again, its ringing sharp and urgent.

I jolted, water sloshing over the side of the tub.

I grabbed the phone.

It was Caren.