Page 24 of Marriage and the Midlife Crisis

Ryan wouldn’t do that.

My mind spun in a dozen different directions as I tried to make sense of it. It must have been a new cologne he’d tried at one of the hotel’s shops. He’d probably picked up the wrong tester bottle and spritzed himself with perfume by mistake. Maybe the red spot was ketchup, or cocktail sauce, or even blood if he’d nicked himself while shaving. I was grasping at any idea, no matter how absurd, to rationalize what I’d found on his damned shirt.

I reached out a trembling hand and carefully picked up the shirt again, walking over to the window so I could hold it up to the light shining in.

The smell of the cheap perfume hit me again, making bile rise up into the back of my throat. I swallowed, my throat so tight it was almost painful.

I forced myself to look at the shirt, to inspect it closely before I jumped to any conclusions. Something sparkled in the light, right next to the buttons over the chest. I peered at it, taking in the strange tannish stain that shimmered as I turned the shirt this way and that.

Foundation, or maybe bronzer. And was that…glitter?

I rubbed my thumb over the red spot on the collar. It was definitely lipstick.

I crumpled the shirt in my hands, trying to calm my breathing which was suddenly shallow and very rapid.

This can’t be happening. There has to be another explanation. Ryan wouldn’t cheat, I reminded myself sternly.

I crossed back over to the bed, then carefully folded the shirt and set it aside. A feeling of dread enveloped me as I stared at the clothes in the hamper. Piece by piece, I picked them up again.

Inspected them. Studied them. Sniffed them.

One part of me was horrified that I had been reduced to this. The other part of me – the analytical part that considered everything, from every angle – that part of me was on a mission to figure shit out.

I tossed each article of clothing back into the hamper once I’d assured myself that they harbored nothing suspicious. Aside from the sour tang of beer on the jeans that I’d already found, there was nothing else out of the ordinary.

I checked the pockets and zippered sections of the suitcase. They were empty, too.

I shook my head, filled with relief that I hadn’t found anything else, and feeling foolish that I’d allowed myself to stoop so low. I knew better, because Ryan wouldn’t cheat.

He might be inconsiderate sometimes. He was forgetful, certainly. He took me for granted, especially lately. But he wasn’t a cheater. He had honor and integrity. He loved me. He wouldn’t cheat.

I knew that.

So, why does his shirt have perfume and make-up on it?

I huffed out a breath, trying to ignore the snarky little voice inside my head which was still harboring seeds of doubt.

“There’s got to be a logical explanation. He’s a handsome man. He gets hit on sometimes. He always shuts them down. He probably had to deal with some drunk bitch who tried to get handsy, or she bumped into him and that’s when he spilled beer in his lap,” I theorized, talking to myself as I usually did when trying to figure something out. “I’m sure there’s a simple explanation. Just ask him about it when he gets home.”

I flipped the suitcase closed and zipped it up, angry with myself for spiraling like that.

“You got yourself all worked up over nothing, Melanie Jane,” I lectured myself. “You probably looked like a crazy woman, sniffing a pile of dirty laundry like a bloodhound on the hunt.”

I glared at the shirt, trying to decide if I should toss it into the hamper with the rest of the clothes, or just throw it out with the trash. I didn’t want to have to look at it again and be reminded of how foolish I’d been.

I gripped the handle of the now-empty suitcase and picked it up, sliding it back under our bed where we stored it. As I stood up again, I saw a bit of purple fabric laying on the bed near where the suitcase had been.

I suddenly remembered seeing something fall from the shirt when I’d first picked it up, although I hadn’t really registered it at the time.

“What on earth? Purple…”

A cold trickle of dread slid down my spine, and my breath stalled as the truth hit me like a solid punch to the solar plexus.

Purple lace.

I reached down and carefully nudged it with my index finger. It was a thong. A purple lace thong.

I yanked my hand back in disbelief, then glanced around and spotted a pen on the nightstand. Not wanting to touch the underwear again, I slid the tip of the pen under the scrap of lace, hoping against hope that I’d see a price tag dangling from it to indicate he’d bought it for me as a belated birthday gift.