“Seriously? You’re bringing her up again?” He stabbed his fork into the tiramisu. Tossed the last bite into his mouth. Shoved the empty plate to the other side of the table. The fork skidded off and jangled on the deck floor. Heads turned.

“Well, as your wife, it bothers me that you flirt with Marin. She’s your brother’s wife and my best friend.”

Oliver slammed his fist down, upsetting his water glass. “How do I flirt with her?”

I should have stopped right there. Instead, I plummeted right off the edge. “You two are constantly whispering and laughing and touching each other. It’s inappropriate. I’m not the only one who notices it; your brother and parents do too. And I’m sure Vera does, which may be why she’s acting so strange, seeing her father blatantly flirting with her aunt.”

“So the whole family is talking about me behind my back?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yes, you did.” Oliver raised his hand, motioning to the shrink-wrapped waitress. “Check please.”

With a dip of her chin, the waitress stooped to pick up the fork and was off.

“This is supposed to be a fun night out, and I really don’t want to fight about this. Whatever flirting you think I’m doing, it’s all in your dirty little mind. If it bothers you how I act around Marin, then let’s cancel family dinners with them, okay? You know I love you, but this jealousy has got to stop, or it’s going to start affecting our marriage.”

It was already affecting—and infecting—our marriage; Oliver was simply oblivious to it. I could give them a pass at being naïve, but the line between flirting and falling was growing thin. Letting his hand linger on her forearm for too long. The way he laughed too loudly at her jokes, while ignoring everyone else. And they always picked seats next to each other at family dinners. Anyone with eyes could see it, but Oliver remained blind. Or pretended to be.

A mist thickened the air as we paid our check and sprinted to the car. Oliver opened my door—since our first date as freshmen in college he remained ever the proper gentleman, even in the middle of a fight—and I stepped in, flipping down the mirror to check my mascara while he slid into the driver’s seat. The thirty-minute drive home to Oakmont was tensely silent, me brooding over Oliver, Oliver brooding over traffic, both of us stuck in the middle of a fight that neither of us would end. Sometimes it lasted through days of silent treatment or one-word exchanges.

My phone chirped with an incoming text:

Mom pls don’t be mad at me when u get home. but i need 2 clean up the mess.