My Husband Said At The Beach: “I Just Put Sunscreen On Her Back. If You’re So Jealous…
The sunscreen bottle gleamed white against the July sand, and I watched my husband hand it to another woman like he was passing her the keys to our marriage, which in retrospect he probably was. Could you get my back? Skyler Aaron never puts on enough. Grant’s laugh carried across the beach light and carefree. The same laugh I’d fallen for 20 years ago.
Now it felt like fingernails on a chalkboard. I’m Aaron O’Connell and until that moment I thought I knew my husband. I fix computers for a living at Boston Technical Group BTG, a small firm just outside our faded Marblehead MA town. Nothing glamorous about it, but it pays the bills. Grant is the lawyer in the family, climbing his way up at Allbright and Stone LLP downtown.
He’s always been the ambitious one, the one with plans and dreams that stretched beyond our little coastal town. Skyler Vance squeezed a generous dollop of SPF 30 onto her palm, grinning like she’d won the lottery. Golden girl, realtor, perfect smile, the kind of woman who probably peaked in high school, but never realized it.
Her hands moved across my husband’s shoulders with practiced familiarity, and something cold settled in my stomach. There you go, handsome. she said, her voice carrying that fake charm, realtor perfect in their first week on the job. I stood 10 feet away, holding our son’s beach bags like some kind of pack mule, watching my marriage dissolve in broad daylight.
Ethan, our 14-year-old, was building sand castles with his 9-year-old brother, Liam, blissfully unaware that mom was having what you might call an epiphany. Aaron, you’re staring. Grant called out, not bothering to look in my direction. If you’re so worried about sunscreen application, maybe you should have offered first. The group of friends around us, Trevor Nolan, Carla, and Alex Miller, the Fitzgeralds.
They all turned to look at me with that particular brand of pity reserved for clueless wives. I felt like a specimen under a microscope, and not a particularly interesting one. just making sure you don’t burn, I said, forcing what I hoped passed for a smile. You know how sensitive your skin gets. Skyler’s hands lingered on Grant’s lower back right above the line of his swimming trunks.
He arched slightly under her touch, and I watched two decades of marriage evaporate like morning fog. Don’t be such a worry, wart, Trevor chimed in, adjusting his oversized sunglasses. Trevor has been Grant’s best friend since college. The kind of man who collects gossip like some people collect stamps. Skyler is just being helpful, aren’t you, sweetie? The way he said sweetie made my skin crawl.
There was something proprietary about it, like he had some kind of claim on her, too. Small towns breed strange relationships, and Marblehead was small enough that everyone knew everyone else’s business. Apparently, everyone except me. I pulled out my phone and opened the airline app. 3 hours until the last flight back to Chicago, then a short hop to Dallas.
I could be home by midnight, sleeping in my own bed instead of this cramped hotel room that smelled like industrial disinfectant and broken dreams. I think I’m going to head back early. I announced to no one in particular. Grant finally turned around. Skyler’s hands still resting on his shoulders like they belonged there. What? Aaron, don’t be ridiculous. We have two more days.
Ethan’s got that baseball camp on Monday. I should get his gear ready. It wasn’t entirely a lie. Ethan did have baseball camp, but his gear had been ready for weeks. I’m nothing if not organized a trait that comes in handy when you’re planning your exit strategy from a 20-year marriage. Baseball camp isn’t until next week.
Liam piped up from his sand castle because 9-year-olds have inconveniently perfect memories. prep camp. I corrected booking the flight with my thumb. Different thing. Grant’s eyes narrowed. He’s got excellent instincts, which makes him a good lawyer and, as I was learning, a careful cheater. Aaron, you’re being weird. Just sit down and relax.
Have a drink. I don’t want a drink. I want to go home. The silence that followed was the kind that makes everyone uncomfortable. Alex Miller cleared his throat and mumbled something about checking on the cooler. Carla suddenly became very interested in her magazine. Even the kids sensed the tension and stopped playing.
“Fine,” Grant said, his voice taking on that sharp edge I’d been hearing more often lately. “Go home, run away like you always do when things get complicated.” “Complicated?” I looked at Skyler’s hands, still resting on my husband’s skin, like they had every right to be there. Is that what we’re calling this? Skyler finally had the decency to step back, but her smirk never wavered.
Hey, woman, just helping out with sunscreen. No need to get all worked up. I wanted to laugh. Worked up. I was about as worked up as a person watching her life implode in slow motion could be. Instead, I picked up my son’s bags and started walking toward the hotel. Boys, pack up your stuff. We’re leaving in an hour.
But mom, Liam started. 1 hour. I repeated, not turning around. Back in the hotel room, I threw clothes into suitcases with the efficiency of a person who’d finally figured out the rules of the game she’d been playing, blindfolded for months, maybe years. The signs had been there late nights at the office.
New clothes, that particular glow that comes from someone paying attention to you in all the right ways. I’d just been too stupid or too trusting to see them. I left a note on the nightstand. Short and to the point. Found your sunscreen, buddy. Don’t come home until you figure out what you really want. The boys and I will be fine. Then I walked out of that hotel room and didn’t look back.
The house felt different when I got home at midnight, like it was holding its breath. Ethan and Liam had fallen asleep in the car, and I carried them inside one by one, tucking them into their beds with the careful precision of a woman, trying not to wake her children or her rage. 3 days. That’s how long it took for Grant to call.
Aaron, what the hell is wrong with you? His voice came through the phone, sharp and accusatory, like I was the one who’d been rubbing sunscreen on someone else’s spouse. The boys are asking where you are. Liam’s been crying. I was sitting in my home office surrounded by the tools of my trade computers, cables, diagnostic equipment. The familiar hum of electronics was oddly comforting, like white noise for the technically inclined.
Tell Liam, I’m at home where I belong. Where are you? I’m still at the hotel with our friends who are all asking very uncomfortable questions thanks to your little disappearing act. Uncomfortable questions. I leaned back in my desk chair, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. Like what kind of questions? You know exactly what kind of questions, Aaron. Don’t play dumb.
I’m not playing anything, Grant. I’m just sitting here in my house thinking about sunscreen and how helpful some people can be with its application. The silence stretched between us like a tight rope. When he spoke again, his lawyer voice was in full effect controlled, measured dangerous. If you have something to say, just say it.
I think Skyler has very thorough sunscreen technique. Very hands-on. You’re being ridiculous. Am I? Because from where I was standing, it looked like she’d had plenty of practice on you specifically. Another silence longer this time. I could practically hear the gears turning in his head, calculating responses, weighing options.
It’s what makes him good at his job and apparently good at deception. Aaron, you’re paranoid. Skyler is a friend. She was helping me with sunscreen because my wife was too busy sulking to do it herself. Right. And I’m sure all that late night texting you’ve been doing is just friendly conversation about real estate. The sharp intake of breath told me I’d hit the target.
Score one for the paranoid wife. I don’t know what you think you know. I know you’ve been different for months. I know you bought new boxer briefs and started going to the gym. I know you’ve been working late on cases that don’t exist because I called your office last Tuesday when you said you’d be there until 10. Guess what? Building was empty. You called my office, Aaron.
That’s thorough. Yeah, I’m good at that. Comes with the job. You’d be amazed what you can figure out when you actually pay attention. I heard voices in the background. Muffled conversation that sounded like damage control. Trevor’s voice sharp and urgent. Skyler saying something about handling the situation. I’m coming home. Grant said finally.
Don’t. What do you mean don’t? It’s my house, too. Not anymore. I changed the locks yesterday. Your stuff is packed and sitting on the front porch. You might want to get it before it rains. The explosion of outrage that followed was so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear.
When he finally ran out of steam, I spoke into the relative quiet. Grant, you still there? You can’t lock me out of my own house. Actually, I can. House is in my name. Remember, you wanted to keep your credit clean for the partnership track. Seemed like a good idea at the time. This is insane, Aaron. You’re having some kind of breakdown. Maybe.
Or maybe I’m finally having a breakthrough. Hard to tell the difference sometimes. I hung up and immediately called Alex Miller. Alex is a good guy. The kind of friend who will tell you when you have spinach in your teeth or when your husband is playing hide the sunscreen with the local realtor. Aaron Jesus woman. What happened at the beach? Grant’s been Alex. I need you to do me a favor.
I need you to ask Carla what she saw at the beach. Really saw. And I need you to ask her how long it’s been going on. The pause that followed told me everything I needed to know. Aaron, listen. How long, Alex? Carla thinks maybe three months. Maybe longer. She wasn’t sure if she should say anything. Three months.
I repeated it like a foreign phrase I was trying to learn. Well, that explains the new gym membership. Aaron, I’m sorry, man. We all thought you knew. The way they were acting, we figured you were okay with it or working things out or or I’m the kind of woman who lets her husband get felt up by the local realtor at family beach trips.
That’s not what I meant. I know what you meant, Alex. Thanks for being honest. I hung up and opened my laptop. Time to do what I do best, dig into the digital details of people’s lives. Grant thought he was careful, but he’d made one crucial mistake. He’d left his email logged in on our shared computer, the one in the kitchen that we used for family stuff.
The folder labeled personal told a story that would make a soap opera writer weep with joy. Three months of increasingly intimate emails with Skyler, complete with plans for weekend getaways, complaints about his clueless wife, and enough explicit detail to make me grateful I’d skipped dinner. But the really interesting stuff was in the folder labeled finances.
Apparently, my ambitious husband had been making some ambitious investments day trading cryptocurrency. Something called a guaranteed return opportunity that had all the hallmarks of a pyramid scheme. He’d lost nearly 30,000 vods of his own money and was dipping into our joint savings to cover the losses.
No wonder he’d been working late. He hadn’t been working at all. He’d been trying to dig himself out of a financial hole while simultaneously digging himself deeper into Skyler Vance’s arms. I forwarded the most interesting emails to my personal account, then cleared the browser history. If Grant wanted to play games, he was about to learn that his wife had been playing them a lot longer than he had.
My phone buzzed with a text from Ethan. Mom, dad’s here yelling at the front door. He says, “You changed the locks. What’s going on? I looked out the front window. Sure enough, there was my husband standing next to three suitcases and a pile of boxes poking at his phone like he was trying to stab it in frustration.
He looked up and saw me in the window. And even from 30 ft away, I could see the fury in his eyes. Time for round two. Grant moved in with Trevor Nolan, which was either the best thing that could have happened to my revenge plans or the worst thing that could have happened to my sanity. Trevor lived in one of those converted Victorian houses downtown, the kind with thin walls and thinner privacy, perfect for a man who’d built his social life around collecting and distributing other people’s secrets.
The irony wasn’t lost on me that my husband was now living with the town’s biggest gossip while trying to keep his own secrets quiet. I gave it a week before making my next move. During that week, Grant called 17 times, sent 43 text messages, and showed up at my office twice. I ignored the calls, deleted the texts, and had building security escort him out both times.
The boys stayed with me during the week and spent weekends at Trevor’s. An arrangement that suited everyone except Grant, who was learning that being the villain in your own life story comes with certain disadvantages. Ethan, bless his teenage heart, had figured out most of the situation on his own.
He cornered me in the kitchen while Liam was getting ready for school. Dad’s been cheating on you, hasn’t he? I nearly choked on my coffee. Ethan, that’s not really something we should Mom, I’m 14, not four. I saw how he was acting at the beach, and I heard him on the phone with Trevor last night when I was supposed to be asleep.
He was crying and saying something about how you’d ruined everything. I ruined everything. That’s what he said. But Trevor told him he was being dramatic and that you’d get over it once you came to your senses. Ethan made air quotes with his fingers, a gesture that somehow made the betrayal feel even sharper.
“What do you think about all this?” I asked. “Because sometimes the best way to handle a teenager is to treat them like the almost adult they’re trying to become.” “I think dad’s an idiot,” Ethan said matterofactly. “And I think you should make him pay for it out of the mouths of babes and 14year-olds.” That afternoon, I made a call to Mr. Donovan, our 70-year-old neighbor who had elevated nosiness to an art form.
Mr. Donovan knew everything about everyone in Marblehead. And more importantly, he wasn’t shy about sharing what he knew. Aaron, dear, how are you holding up? I heard about Grant moving out. Such a shame when marriages fall apart.
His voice carried that particular tone of sympathy that barely concealed excitement about having fresh gossip to distribute. I’m managing Mr. Donovan. It’s been difficult, especially with the boys. They don’t understand why their father chose to prioritize other relationships over his family. Other relationships. The interest in his voice sharpened like a knife being honed. I probably shouldn’t say anything.
It’s not really my place to discuss Grant’s personal choices. Of course not, dear. But sometimes it helps to talk to someone who understands. I let out a carefully crafted sigh. I suppose it’s no secret that he’s been spending a lot of time with Skyler Vance. The boys noticed it, too, especially at the beach last weekend. Ethan asked me why Daddy was letting Miss Vance touch him like mommy does.
The silence that followed was the sound of Mr. Donovan’s gossip engine revving up to full power. Oh my, he said finally. That poor child and poor you, Aaron. I had no idea things had gotten so complicated. I’m trying to keep it quiet for the boy’s sake, but it’s hard when half the town saw them together at the beach, and now he’s moved in with Trevor instead of trying to work things out with his family.
Moved in with Trevor. But I thought Trevor was dating that nice young woman from the bank. was being the operative phrase I said planting the seed I’d been carefully cultivating since my conversation with Ethan. Apparently Trevor’s been spending quite a bit of time with Skyler, too. Small town, limited options.
I suppose it wasn’t entirely true, but it wasn’t entirely false either. I’d seen Trevor and Skyler together at the Black Dog Tavern three times in the past month. Always sitting just a little too close, always leaving separately, but within minutes of each other in a town like Marblehead that was practically a public declaration of involvement.
Oh my goodness, Mr. Donovan breathed. You don’t think? I don’t think anything, Mr. Donovan. I’m just trying to focus on my sons and move forward with my life. I hung up knowing that by dinnertime, half of Marblehead would know that Grant Sullivan was living with his best friend, who might or might not be sharing his girlfriend.
By tomorrow morning, the other half would know, along with several creative embellishments, that Mr. Donovan’s network of fellow information enthusiasts would add to the story. Phase two of my plan involved a trip to the Black Dog Tavern, the kind of local establishment where everyone knows your name and your business, whether you want them to or not.
I timed my arrival for Thursday night when the afterwork crowd would be thick enough to provide cover, but small enough to ensure maximum gossip distribution. Skyler was there, of course, holding court at her usual table near the back, regailing a group of local people with what I assumed were stories about her latest real estate conquests.
She saw me come in, and her expression shifted from confident to wary in the space of a heartbeat. I ordered a beer and took a seat at the bar, close enough to be noticed, but far enough away to avoid immediate confrontation. Patience is a virtue, especially when you’re planning someone’s social destruction. Aaron Tommy Fitzgerald waved me over to his table. Haven’t seen you around lately.
How’s things? Could be better, I said, accepting the chair someone pulled up for me. But I’m managing. Sorry to hear about you and Grant, Alex Miller said quietly. That’s got to be rough. Rougher on the kids than on me. I replied loud enough for the neighboring tables to hear.
They don’t understand why their father moved out to live with his friends instead of trying to work things out at home. Friends. Tommy looked confused. I thought he was staying with Trevor. He is Trevor and Skyler. Apparently modern arrangements for modern problems, I guess. The silence that followed was beautiful.
I watched the information spread across the bar like ripples in a pond, each person processing the implications and filing them away for future distribution. Skyler’s table had gone quiet, and when I glanced over, she was staring at me with undisguised hostility. Perfect. I finished my beer, said my goodbyes, and headed home, leaving behind a bar full of people who now had a very different understanding of the situation between Aaron O’Connell and her estranged husband. My phone started ringing before I reached my car.
The call was from Trevor, and he was furious. Aaron, what the hell do you think you’re doing? I sat in my car in the Black Dog Tavern’s parking lot, watching through the window as Skyler gestured angrily at her phone. Probably getting a similar call from Grant, who was probably getting calls from half the town by now.
I’m not doing anything, Trevor. Just having a beer and talking to friends. You’re spreading lies about me and Skyler. Am I? What lies would those be? You know exactly what you’re doing. You’re trying to make it look like I’m involved with Skyler, like we’re all living together in some kind of weird arrangement. Aren’t you? I asked innocently.
I mean, you’re roommates now. She’s over there all the time. You leave the Black Dog Tavern together. If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, we’re friends, Aaron. That’s all. And even if we were more than friends, it’s none of your business. You’re right. It’s not my business. But when my husband moves in with his best friend, who’s also involved with his girlfriend, it does make for interesting dinner conversation. People talk Trevor. You know that better than anyone.
The silence stretched long enough for me to count three people leaving the tavern and checking their phones as they walked to their cars. The Marblehead Gossip Network was working at peak efficiency. Aaron, you need to stop this. You’re hurting everyone, including your own sons. My sons are fine.
They’re living with their mother in their own home, going to their own schools, sleeping in their own beds. Their father, on the other hand, is living with his friend and his friend’s girlfriend, which I’m sure provides all kinds of educational opportunities. That’s not what’s happening.
Then what is happening? Trevor, explain it to me because from where I’m sitting, it looks like my husband left his family to shack up with his girlfriend and her best friend. If there’s another interpretation, I’m all ears. I hung up before he could answer and drove home where Ethan was waiting up for me with a bowl of ice cream and a knowing smile.
How’d it go, Mom? Your father’s going to be very unhappy with me. Good, Ethan said and meant it. The next morning, brought a text from Grant. We need to talk. Meet me at Allbright and Stone at 10:0 a.m. I showed up at 9:45 dressed in my best khakis and button-down shirt, looking like exactly what I was a middleclass IT specialist who’d stumbled into a situation way above her pay grade.
Grant was waiting in the conference room flanked by his boss, Judith Albreight, and looking like he’d slept about as well as I had, which is to say not at all. Aaron, thank you for coming. Albbright said, extending her hand like we were old friends instead of a lawyer and the woman whose husband was currently destroying his career with spectacular poor judgment.
Grant thought it would be good for us all to sit down and discuss the situation. What situation would that be? I asked, taking the seat across from them. The situation where you’re spreading malicious rumors about my client and damaging his reputation in the community, Albbright said smoothly. malicious rumors. I pulled out my phone and opened the email folder I’d been saving for just this occasion.
You mean like the rumor that he’s been having an affair with Skyler Vance for the past 3 months? Cuz I’ve got about 40 emails that suggest that’s not a rumor at all. Grant’s face went white. Albbright’s expression didn’t change, but I saw her eyes flick to him with something that might have been annoyance.
Or maybe you mean the rumor that he’s lost $30,000 day trading and dipping into our joint accounts to cover his losses. Because I’ve got bank statements that tell that story pretty clearly, too. Aaron, you’re taking things out of context, Grant said, his voice strained. And let me read you this one email from last Tuesday.
Can’t wait to feel your hands on me again. Aaron’s working late, so we have the house to ourselves until 10 no. That seems pretty clear to me. What context am I missing? Albbright cleared her throat. Miss O’Connell, I understand you’re upset, but I’m not upset, Miss Albbright. I’m informed. There’s a difference. I scrolled through my phone.
Here’s another good one. Aaron is so clueless. She probably wouldn’t notice if we did it on the kitchen table. Romantic stuff. Really makes a wife feel valued. Grant stood up abruptly. I don’t have to listen to this. Actually, you do, I said calmly, because this is just the preview. The full feature presentation starts Monday morning when I file for divorce.
And these emails become part of the public record along with the financial statements, the phone records, and the very detailed timeline I’ve put together of your extracurricular activities. Albbright leaned forward. Ms. Okonnell, perhaps we can work something out. A quiet dissolution sealed records. Everyone moves on with their dignity intact.
Dignity. I laughed and it came out harsher than I intended. Where was dignity when my husband was letting another woman rub sunscreen on him in front of our children in half the town? Where was dignity when he was complaining to his lover about his clueless wife who was working 60our weeks to support his legal career? Aaron, please, Grant said.
And for the first time since this whole thing started, he sounded genuinely desperate. Think about Ethan and Liam. Do you really want them to see their parents destroy each other like this? I looked at him for a long moment. This man I’d loved for 20 years who’d given me two beautiful sons and 15 years of what I’d thought was happiness.
He was right about one thing. This was going to hurt the boys, but staying quiet and pretending everything was fine would hurt them more in the long run. I think about Ethan and Liam every day. I said finally. I think about what kind of example we’re setting for them about marriage, about loyalty, about consequences.
And I think the lesson here is pretty clear. Actions have consequences. Even when you’re smart enough to think you won’t get caught. I stood up and headed for the door, then turned back. Oh, and Grant, you might want to have a conversation with Trevor about Skyler. Turns out your girlfriend has been spreading her attention around more than you realized.
Small town limited options, like I said. I left them sitting there and walked out into the morning sunshine, feeling lighter than I had in months. My phone was buzzing with messages, but I ignored them. Phase three was about to begin, and I had a charity gala to prepare for.
The Northshore Community Fund’s annual charity gala was the social event of the year. The kind of gathering where everyone who was anyone showed up to be seen doing good works while actually just gossiping and drinking overpriced wine. This year’s theme was building tomorrow together, which seemed ironically appropriate given how many relationships were about to be demolished. I hadn’t planned to attend.
Charity gallas weren’t exactly my scene. And given the current state of my marriage, showing up alone would have been like wearing a sign that said, “Ask me about my personal disasters.” But then Ethan made a suggestion that changed everything. Mom, you should go to that fancy party dad’s been talking about for months.
We were eating dinner in the kitchen, just the three of us, and Liam was pushing peas around his plate with the focused determination of a child who believes vegetables might disappear if ignored long enough. Why would I want to do that, sweetheart? Because dad will be there with his new friends, and everyone will expect you to hide at home feeling sorry for yourself. But if you show up looking good and acting normal, it’ll mess with his head.
Sometimes I wondered if Ethan was actually 14 or 41 with really good skin care. That’s very strategic thinking. I learned from the best, he said with a grin that reminded me painfully of his father. So I rented a gown, got a haircut, and showed up at the Marblehead Yach Club looking like a woman who had her life together instead of a person whose husband was currently living in a soap opera of his own creation.
The ballroom was packed with familiar faces, all of whom gave me the kind of looks usually reserved for traffic accidents. Horrified fascination mixed with relief that it wasn’t happening to them. Grant was there, of course, wearing a tuxedo that probably cost more than my monthly mortgage payment. He was standing near the silent auction tables with Skyler, who had apparently decided that formal wear made her look sophisticated instead of like a used car saleswoman in a rented dress.
Trevor was with them completing the triangle of dysfunction that had become the talk of the town. I grabbed a glass of wine and made the rounds accepting condolences and deflecting questions with the practiced ease of a woman who’d spent two weeks perfecting her public face. The key was to look slightly wounded but dignified, like someone who’d been betrayed, but was handling it with class.
“Aaron, so good to see you here,” said Henry Vance, the foundation’s president and one of Marblehead’s most prominent social gatekeepers. “I wasn’t sure you’d be joining us tonight.” “Wouldn’t miss it,” I replied smoothly. “This cause means a lot to me, and I wasn’t about to let personal circumstances interfere with supporting the community. How admirable.
And how are you holding up? This must be such a difficult time. It’s been challenging, I admitted. But I’m focusing on what matters most, my sons, and moving forward. Life’s too short to dwell on other people’s choices. Henry nodded sympathetically, but I could see the curiosity burning behind his eyes.
And Grant, how was he adjusting to his new living situation? This was the opening I’d been waiting for. He seems to be adapting well to the arrangement. It’s certainly unconventional, but I suppose modern problems require modern solutions. Arrangement. Living with Trevor and Skyler. I’m sure they’re all very comfortable together. I took a sip of wine and let that statement hang in the air like a perfectly timed punchline.
Henry’s eyes widened slightly. All three of them living together. While Grant staying with Trevor and Skylar is there most nights. Whether that’s temporary or permanent, I couldn’t say. Not really my business anymore. I excused myself and moved on to the next conversation, leaving Henry to process and distribute that information to his extensive network of fellow social arbiters.
Within 20 minutes, I’d had variations of the same conversation with six different people each time adding just enough detail to keep the story interesting without saying anything that could be considered outright slander. The beauty of small town gossip is that you don’t have to lie. You just have to present the truth from the most unflattering angle possible and let people’s imaginations fill in the gaps.
I was standing near the bar enjoying the subtle chaos I’d unleashed when Trevor appeared at my elbow like a perfectly quafted avenging angel. We need to talk. He hissed. Hello, Trevor. You look lovely tonight. That tuxedo really brings out the guilt in your eyes. Cut the act, Aaron. I know what you’re doing.
I’m supporting local charities and making small talk with friends. What are you doing? He grabbed my arm and steered me toward a quiet corner near the coat check. You’re destroying people’s lives with your lies. What lies? I haven’t told a single lie tonight. Everything I’ve said is technically accurate. You’re making it sound like Skyler and I are involved.
Like we’re all living together in some kind of weird threesome arrangement. Aren’t you involved with Skyler? The pause that followed told me everything I needed to know. It’s complicated, he said finally. I’ll bet it is. Does Grant know how complicated? Aaron, you don’t understand the whole situation.
Then explain it to me because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been playing both sides of this triangle for months. Good friend to Grant, secret boyfriend to Skyler, and puppet master to both of them. Trevor’s face went pale under his carefully applied makeup. That’s not You don’t know what you’re talking about.
Don’t I Let me tell you what I think happened. I think you’ve been involved with Skyler longer than anyone realizes. I think you encouraged Grant’s affair because it gave you cover for your own relationship. And I think you convinced him to move in with you because it was the perfect way to keep tabs on both of them. You’re insane.
Am I? Then explain why Skyler’s distinctive red convertible was parked outside your house every Tuesday night for the past six months, always leaving before dawn. Explain why you knew about Grant’s financial problems before I did.
Explain why you were so eager to have him move in with you instead of trying to work things out with his wife. Trevor stared at me like I’d grown a second head. How do you know about Tuesday nights? I’m good at my job, Trevor. And my job is paying attention to details that other people miss. I pulled out my phone and showed him a photo I’d taken three weeks ago.
Skyler’s distinctive red convertible parked in his driveway at 11 p.m. I’ve got dozens of these going back months. Want to see them? Aaron, you’re scaring me. Good. You should be scared because while you’ve been playing games with my family, I’ve been collecting evidence. And tomorrow morning, I’m going to have a very interesting conversation with Grant about his best friend’s role in destroying our marriage. I started to walk away, then turn back.
Oh, and Trevor, you might want to powder your face. You’re starting to look sweaty and people are beginning to stare. I left him standing there and headed back into the ballroom where the evening’s entertainment was about to begin. But the real show had already started, and I had front row seats to watch my carefully laid plans come to fruition. The next morning, I woke up to 17 missed calls and 43 text messages.
Grant had apparently spent the night processing the implications of my conversation with Trevor, and the results were about as explosive as I’d expected. The final text sent at 3:47 a.m. was the most interesting. Meet me at the lakehouse. Noon, come alone. We finished this today. The lakehouse was a small cabin that Grant had inherited from his grandmother about 20 minutes outside town on the shore of Lake Winnipegasi, NH. We’d spent some of our happiest times there in the early years of our marriage, back when we actually liked
each other and thought we were building something that would last forever. The irony of ending things where we’d begun them wasn’t lost on me. I dropped the boys off at my mother’s house with instructions to call me every hour, then drove out to the lake with a mixture of anticipation and dread. This was it.
The final confrontation I’d been building toward for weeks. Everything I’d done, every move I’d made had been leading to this moment. The cabin looked smaller than I remembered, weathered by years of New England winters and neglect. Grant’s car was already there, parked next to Skyler’s red convertible and Trevor’s white SUV.
Apparently, come alone had a different meaning in adultery circles than it did in the rest of the world. I sat in my car for a moment, looking at the three vehicles that represented the destruction of my 20-year marriage, and felt something settle in my chest. Not peace exactly, but a kind of grim satisfaction.
I’d played this game better than any of them had expected, and now it was time to collect my winnings. The cabin door opened as I walked up the path, and Grant stepped out onto the porch. He looked exhausted, like someone who’d spent weeks running from consequences that had finally caught up with him. “Thank you for coming,” he said quietly. Wouldn’t miss it.
“Is this where you tell me it’s all a misunderstanding and beg me to take you back?” No, he said, and there was something in his voice I hadn’t heard before. Resignation maybe, or just exhaustion. This is where I tell you that you win. I followed him inside where Skyler and Trevor were sitting on opposite ends of the old couch like boxers in their corners before the final round.
The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. Aaron Skyler said, standing up with the kind of false confidence that comes from knowing you’re about to get your rear handed to you, but hoping to maintain some dignity in the process. Look, woman, I think we all need to sit down. Skyler, I said calmly. Adults are talking, she sat.
I looked around the room at the three people who’d spent months lying to me, manipulating me, and generally treating me like an obstacle to their various schemes. They all looked miserable, which was exactly how I’d planned it. So, I said, settling into the old recliner that had been my favorite spot during happier times. Who wants to go first? Aaron, I’m sorry, Grant began.
I know that doesn’t fix anything, but I need you to know that I never meant for things to get this complicated. Complicated? I repeated. That’s an interesting word choice. I would have gone with destructive or selfish or maybe spectacularly stupid but complicated works too. I made mistakes. You made choices, Grant. There’s a difference. Mistakes are accidental. Choices are deliberate.
You chose to have an affair. You chose to lie to me for months. You chose to move out instead of trying to work things out. Those weren’t mistakes. They were decisions. Trevor cleared his throat. Aaron, I think you should know that I never meant for any of this to happen.
I was just trying to be a good friend to Grant by encouraging him to cheat on his wife with your girlfriend. Skyler isn’t my girlfriend. Really? I pulled out my phone and scrolled to one of my favorite screenshots because this text from her to you last month says, “Can’t wait to get Grant settled so we can stop sneaking around.” That sounds pretty boyfriendish to me.
The silence that followed was beautiful. I watched Grant’s face as he processed the implications, saw the moment when he realized that his best friend and his lover had been playing him just as thoroughly as they’d been playing me. Trevor. Grant’s voice was barely a whisper. Grant, I can explain. How long? Grant stood up, and I recognized the expression on his face.
It was the same look he got when he was cross-examining a hostile witness. How long have you and Skylar been together? Trevor looked at Skylar, who was studying her hands like they held the secrets of the universe. It’s complicated. Everything’s complicated with you people. I said, “Let me simplify it. Trevor and Skyler have been involved for over a year.
Trevor encouraged your affair because it gave him cover for his own relationship and because he thought it would be entertaining to watch your marriage implode. He convinced you to move in with him so he could control both sides of the situation and keep his girlfriend close without anyone asking uncomfortable questions. That’s not true. Trevor protested, but his voice lacked conviction, isn’t it? Then explain why you were so eager to hear every detail about Grant’s affair.
Explain why you pushed him to leave me instead of trying to work things out. Explain why you suggested he move in with you instead of getting his own place. Grant was staring at his best friend like he was seeing him for the first time. You told me Aaron would never forgive me. You said I should just accept that my marriage was over and move on.
I was trying to help you see reality. You were trying to help yourself. I interrupted. And you did a pretty good job of it, too. Right up until you underestimated the clueless wife. Skyler finally found her voice. Aaron, look, I know you’re angry, but I’m not angry, Skyler. Angry is what you feel when someone cuts you off in traffic. What I feel is something much more focused than that.
I stood up and walked to the window that looked out over the lake. The water was calm, reflecting the afternoon sky like a mirror. It was peaceful here, quiet in a way that made the chaos of the past few weeks seem almost surreal. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” I said, still looking out at the water.
“Grant, you’re going to sign the divorce papers I had drawn up, accepting full responsibility for the breakdown of our marriage. You’re going to agree to joint custody with primary residence with me. And you’re going to explain to Ethan and Liam why you chose to destroy their family. Aaron, I’m not finished. You’re also going to repay the $30,000 dull dollars you lost gambling with our savings with interest.
And you’re going to do it without contesting the divorce or trying to claim any part of the house, the retirement accounts, or anything else we built together during 20 years of marriage. That’s not fair. Fair. I turned around and looked at him. You want to talk about fair? Was it fair when you were complaining to your lover about your clueless wife? Was it fair when you were planning weekend getaways while I was working overtime to support your career? Was it fair when you let another woman put her hands on you in front of our children? Grant started crying, but I felt nothing.
The tears that might have moved me 6 months ago just looked like manipulation now. Skyler, I continued, “You’re going to stay away from my family permanently. If I see you near my house, my kids, or anywhere I happen to be, I’m going to make your life very unpleasant in ways that will surprise you. You can’t threaten me. I’m not threatening you.
I’m explaining consequences. There’s a difference. I walked over to where my laptop bag was sitting by the door and pulled out a manila folder thick with papers. This contains copies of every email, every text message, every financial record, and every photograph I’ve collected over the past month.
It’s all going to Albbright and Stone LLP tomorrow morning, along with a detailed timeline of Grant’s affair and Trevor’s role in facilitating it. It’s also going to the Massachusetts Bar Association since Grant’s been using firm resources to conduct his personal business. Aaron, please, Grant whispered. my career. Should have thought about that before you decided to conduct your affair using your work email account.
Did you really think I wouldn’t check the computer logs? I looked around the room one last time at these three people who thought they were so much smarter than the boring IT specialist who fixed their computers and paid their bills and never asked uncomfortable questions.
You know what the funny thing is? I said, “You all thought I was clueless. You thought I was too trusting, too naive, too boring to figure out what was really going on. And you were right for a while. But the thing about underestimating people is that eventually they surprise you.” I headed for the door, then stopped and looked back at Grant. 20 years, Grant.
20 years of marriage and you threw it away for three months with a small town realtor who was cheating on you with your best friend. I hope it was worth it. I walked out of that cabin and didn’t look back. Behind me, I could hear voices rising accusations flying the sound of three people finally turning on each other the way they’d been turning on me for months.
