THE PART I AVOID TELLING: He Pulled Him Into The Dark
I did not scream. I did not turn on the blinding overhead lights and demand to know what was happening in my own house. That is the part of the story I still hate admitting out loud, the part that keeps me awake on the nights when the house is too quiet. I just stood frozen at the top of the stairs, trapped in the shadows, watching my husband’s calloused hand rise toward his best friend's face.
PREVIOUSLY
I woke up at two in the morning, seven months pregnant, only to hear the unmistakable sound of soft jazz drifting up from the living room. My husband, Marcus—a rough, bearded motorcycle mechanic who lived in grease-stained denim and never listened to jazz—had left our bed earlier, claiming his shoulder was aching. When I walked quietly to the top of the stairs to check on him, the living room was lit only by the flickering glow of the fireplace. Marcus and his childhood best friend, Tommy, were not drinking at the kitchen table. They were standing in the center of the room, pressed flush against each other from chest to hip, swaying in perfect, terrifying silence. Tommy’s hand was tangled possessively in Marcus’s hair. As I stood paralyzed in the dark, Marcus lifted his hand toward Tommy’s face.
