“So, what’s up?” Mackenzie asked, sitting at the breakfast table that she had refinished in a French country style—slick cocoa brown on top, contrasting white painted legs. She’d poured hours into making it perfect—sanding, staining, painting . . . it sounded grueling when it was easier to just click “purchase” on Wayfair. I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous at her ingenuity and thriftiness, especially as I sat on a $40,000 mountain of debt that I had yet to tell Grant about.

“Been having a rough patch lately,” I admitted with a shrug as I dropped into the chair across from her. “I think something’s going on with Grant.”

“Something like what?”

“I don’t know exactly. I just . . . I think he’s lying to me about something.”

“What makes you think that?” Mackenzie, always the logical one. Always assuming the best about people. Sometimes it balanced my more skeptical nature, but right now it simply irritated me. For once I wanted her to side with me, not question me.

“On Friday night he told me he was playing poker with the guys, but I asked Owen about it at dinner on Sunday and he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. It just seemed so sudden—Grant hadn’t mentioned the game, then suddenly he’s running out the door. Maybe I’m being paranoid.”

“He has other friends he plays poker with, right?”

It was a reasonable question, one a spouse should be able to answer. I should know who he hangs out with, who his friends are. And yet no one else came to mind.

“I honestly don’t know. The only friends I’ve ever been aware of are Owen and Tony . . . and God knows where Tony is these days. It’s not like Grant invites anyone else to our house for barbecues or has ever mentioned golfing with anyone from work. Don’t you think, as his wife, I should know about his social life?”

“Well, yeah, sure. But have you ever asked him?”

“No. I didn’t think I had to.”

“Maybe he’s got work buddies. It’s probably guys he works with.”

“Mac, he works primarily with young female nurses. So if he is making work buddies, we might have a problem.”

“Just ask him and stop overthinking it.”

Maybe I was overthinking it. Just because I shared every detail of my day with Grant—minus my secret compulsive shopping—and introduced him to every single one of my friends didn’t mean it came naturally to him to do the same. All I needed to do was talk to him about it. Easy. Problem solved. And yet why did I dread that conversation?

“I guess you’re right. I don’t know why it’s been bothering me so much.”