“Is she going to be there?” I ask him, staring straight ahead at a black and white photo of the two of us taken years ago on vacation in Mexico.

Why? Why even bother? Why did I let it slip out? I’d planned to just say goodbye. Just end this suffering already.

As he answers, I continue to stare at the genuine smile on my face and then to where his arm is wrapped possessively around my waist in the photograph.

I hate that I asked. It’s my insecurity, my hate. My envy even.

“No, she’s not. And I already told you it doesn’t matter.” Any trace of a smile or even of disinterest leaves me. I can’t hide what it does to me, what his lie has done to me.

It doesn’t matter. Let it go. They’re all nonanswers. They’re words to hide the truth and we both know it.

My elbow is planted on the table as I rest my chin in my hand and try to cover up how much it hurts. To keep it from him just like he’s keeping the truth from me, even if I sniff a little too loud. I speak low as I stare straight ahead at nothing in particular. “You told me it’s not true, but you didn’t deny it to the press,” I tell him and finally look him in the eye. “You didn’t deny it to anyone but me, and I know you’re lying.” My words crack at the end and I have to tear my gaze away. “It’s been different since you came home.” My last statement is drawn out and practically a whisper. It’s been difficult between us over the past year, but the last two weeks … The tension between us changed the second he came home. I knew something bad had happened. I knew it.

Everyone told me to be careful and warned me about Evan six years ago when I first started seeing him. I knew what I was doing when I first said yes to a date with him, when I gave myself to him and let myself fall for someone like him. I’m a fool.

“I told you, Kat, it’s not what it looks like,” he says and his voice is soft, like he’s afraid to say the words louder.

“Then why not tell them?” I ask, staring into his pleading expression. “Why let the world believe you’ve cheated on me? What could you possibly gain?” Each question gets louder as the words rush out of my mouth. I’m ashamed of how much passion there is in my voice. How much of my pain is on display.