Then a woman appeared.
She was wearing a dark coat and carrying a small handbag. Her hair fell over one shoulder as she approached him.
Marcus took two steps toward her.
He looked around.
Then he wrapped his arms around her.
Not a casual hug.
Not a professional greeting between coworkers.
He pulled her close, his hand resting against her back, and she leaned into him as though the embrace were familiar.
They stayed that way for several seconds.
Then he kissed her.
The video ended.
I stood in the driveway, staring at the frozen image on my screen.
I watched it again.
And again.
I wanted to find an explanation hidden somewhere in the pixels. Perhaps I had misunderstood the angle. Perhaps the woman was a relative. Perhaps there was some detail I couldn't see.
But I knew what I had seen.
I lowered the phone.
"Who is she?"
Marcus rubbed his forehead.
"Emma..."
"Who is she?"
"Her name is Olivia."
"Who is Olivia?"
"Someone from work."
I looked at him.
"Someone from work who kisses you outside a restaurant at nearly eleven at night?"
He glanced toward the neighbors again.
"Can we please have this conversation inside?"
"Why? Are you worried they'll hear the truth?"
His expression hardened for a moment, then collapsed into something resembling desperation.
"It wasn't what it looked like."
I almost laughed.
The words were so familiar that I could have predicted them before he spoke.
"Then tell me what it was."
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
And that silence told me more than any confession could have.
Because Marcus was usually very good with words. He could explain a complicated business decision in five minutes, persuade a reluctant client to sign a contract, and talk his way out of an awkward conversation with an ease that sometimes impressed me.
Now he couldn't explain a kiss.
I looked at him for another moment.
Then my phone buzzed again.
Another message.
If he tells you it's only Olivia, ask him about Thursdays.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
"Thursdays," I repeated.
Marcus stopped moving.
It was a tiny reaction.
A tightening around the eyes. A slight movement of his shoulders. His fingers closing around the edge of his T-shirt.
But I saw it.
"What happens on Thursdays?" I asked.
"Nothing."
"Marcus."
"It's work."
"Then why did you look scared when I said Thursdays?"
He stared at the ground.
I felt something inside me shift.
For months, Thursdays had become strange.
Every Thursday, Marcus had a project review.
Every Thursday, he stayed late.
Every Thursday, he returned home exhausted, claimed he'd barely had time to eat, and went straight to the shower.
Sometimes he would sit on the edge of our bed afterward, scrolling through his phone with an expression of intense concentration.
I had asked him about the meetings once.
He had explained that a new client had changed the company's schedule and that Thursdays were the only days everyone could attend.
It had sounded reasonable.
I had accepted it.
Why wouldn't I?
We had been married eleven years. We owned a home together. We had shared bills, holidays, birthdays, vacations, disappointments, and ordinary Tuesday nights.
I knew his coffee order.
I knew which childhood memory still made him laugh.
I knew how he liked his shirts folded and how he always forgot to replace the empty toilet paper roll.
I had believed that knowing these things meant I knew him.
Now I was beginning to understand that familiarity and knowledge were not always the same thing.
"What's happening on Thursdays?" I asked again.
Marcus rubbed both hands over his face.
"Emma, please."
"No. You've had months to tell me the truth. You don't get to ask me for patience now."
He looked at me.
And for the first time, he admitted it.
"Olivia isn't the only woman."
The words seemed to hang in the air between us.
I stared at him.
"What did you say?"
He closed his eyes.
"I've made mistakes."
"How many?"
"I don't know."
"That isn't an answer."
He looked away.
"More than one."
My coffee had gone cold on the porch railing.
The neighbors were still watching.
The car was still covered in lingerie.
And I suddenly understood that the humiliation in the driveway was only the visible part of something much larger.
The worst of it was waiting somewhere I couldn't yet see.
The Address at Six O'Clock
Marcus followed me into the house.
I walked straight to the kitchen and placed my phone on the counter.
He stood near the doorway, as though he were uncertain whether he had permission to come any closer.
"How long?" I asked.
He exhaled slowly.
"It didn't start out like this."
I turned toward him.
"How long have you been cheating on me?"
He stared at the floor.
"About a year."
I felt my throat tighten.
"A year?"
"Maybe a little longer."
I grabbed the edge of the counter.
"How much longer?"
"Emma, I wasn't planning for any of this to happen."
I laughed once, without humor.
"That must be comforting for you."
He looked up.