We were in the middle of a reshoot for our wedding photos when my husband, Larry, suddenly suggested I change my hair color. I refused without thinking. “My boss is pretty strict about professional appearance. No bright or distracting colors allowed.” But he was already warming to his subject. “Just get that ash brown with hazel tones. Indoors, it looks like a soft brunette, I promise your boss would never notice! It would look amazing with your fair skin… even better after it fades a little…” My prolonged silence seemed to jolt him. The tender, gentle look on his face vanished in an instant. I stared at him, my voice flat. “Impressive. You’re quite the expert on what the young girls are into these days.” 1 Larry’s smile froze on his lips. “Ah, well, I happened to be looking into it for a research project.” But the way his thumb worried at his index finger gave him away completely. I’ve known him since we were kids running around in diapers; I could see his panic as clearly as if it were written on his forehead. I forced a smile, pretending it was just a casual question. “Is that so? Well, I need to get changed.” Larry let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and stood up to leave. He moved so quickly he almost forgot his laptop, the one he treated like his second wife. I locked the door and immediately opened his laptop, clicking on his messaging app. Spotless. Clean as a whistle. Even his chat logs with a student from four years ago were still there. Yet my gut was screaming at me, a blaring alarm that something was deeply wrong. Just then, a notification popped up from his banking app. A charge for $188. An order from a flower shop. But Larry hated what he called "all that sentimental nonsense." A morbid curiosity took over. I clicked on his transaction history, and a long, crimson list of charges filled the screen. A recurring payment of $459, $637—popped up on holidays… The first transaction was six months ago. I suddenly remembered him bringing home a bouquet of roses that day, claiming the shop was having a sale. The shop had a quaint, elegant name: The Bloom Room. A knock on the door made me jump. I quickly closed everything, changed my clothes, and opened it. Larry strode over to his laptop, and only after seeing that everything was as he’d left it did he smile at me. “I’ll wait for you outside.” While the makeup artist worked on my face, I searched for the flower shop’s name on Instagram. I couldn’t find a business profile, but I did find a personal account with the same handle, a page filled with sentimental quotes. The profile picture was of two hands coming together to form a heart. On one of those hands, I saw a ring. A ring I designed myself. A one-of-a-kind wedding band, our wedding band. The blood drained from my face. I dug my nails into my palm, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over. I scrolled through the feed, and each post was a dagger to my heart. Under a sprawling oak tree, a red ribbon with two names tied to a branch fluttered in the wind. The caption read: He said he loves me, till death do us part. I guess we’ll let time be the judge. On a sun-drenched prairie, the two of them were nestled together, a hastily packed tent behind them: Witnessed by the sky and the earth, we are husband and wife. He promised he’d make up for everything he owes me. In a charming, rustic town, inside an old artisan shop, they were leaning in close, weaving a large, intricate lover’s knot: The owner said we look so much like a married couple, she asked us to be the shop’s promotional models. Of course, we said yes! I remembered how Larry had tossed aside the detailed travel itinerary I’d spent all night creating, scoffing that traveling was just “swapping one place you’re sick of for another.” He’d mocked me for wanting to “donate my GDP to other cities.” But here he was, the man who had used business trips as an excuse to travel the country with her. The most recent post was from this morning, posted in the dead of night: My stomach acted up in the middle of the night, and he dropped everything to come make me soup. It’s true what they say: the one who is truly loved can get away with anything! The accompanying photo showed a man’s forearm, sleeves rolled up, a pink apron tied around his waist. A few strands of long, ash-brown hair rested on his shoulder, a searing brand on my eyes. I thought back to this morning, to the exhaustion on his face when he came back from his “run,” carrying those specific, tiny croissants from that one bakery across town. How had he explained it away? “I know you love them, so I went to wait in line for you at dawn.” The pain was physical. The words and photos morphed into a thousand sharp blades, stabbing me over and over. Every little thing about Larry that had felt off suddenly made perfect, horrible sense. The man who always preached that “a gentleman stays away from the kitchen” had suddenly developed a keen interest in herbal soups and remedies. The small, unexplained cuts that would occasionally appear on his forearms. A wave of nausea churned in my stomach. I bolted for the restroom and retched, the tears finally breaking free, streaming down my face. Three years of marriage, and another woman’s mark was seared onto his heart. 2 After the photoshoot, I told Larry I had to go to the office and went straight to the airport instead. My destination: that hundred-year-old artisan shop in the charming, rustic town. Larry had often praised the exquisite craftsmanship of traditional arts. Thanks to him, even though the shop was hidden away in a winding alley, I found it without much trouble. Rows of tourist photos were displayed by the entrance. In the very center was a picture of Larry, his face radiating a gentle warmth. His eyes held a light I knew all too well, and the large lover’s knot in his hands obscured the lower half of the woman’s face beside him. Here, a thousand miles away from me, the love overflowing from his heart no longer needed to be hidden. I stood there for a long time, just looking, a faint smile on my face as tears streamed down my cheeks. The shopkeeper approached me cautiously. “Ma’am, are you alright?” I wiped my eyes. “This is my husband,” I said, my voice steady. “He passed away. I wanted to take the photo home as a memento.” The shopkeeper’s jaw dropped. Then, in a sudden burst of anger, she began pulling down several other decorative knots from the wall and shoving them into my arms. “They wove strands of their own hair into these! Talking some poetic nonsense about being bound together for eternity! Ugh, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, that one!” “They even buried a bottle of wine in my backyard,” she fumed. “Said you have to prepare for a daughter’s future wedding day in advance!” They had told her they were a married couple, hoping to start a family. They had rented a pricey little cottage nearby, and every evening they would walk hand-in-hand along the river, always carrying candy to give to the children they met. They were so at ease, so natural, a perfect picture of a married couple. … Before I left town, I made one last stop at the salon where she’d had her hair dyed. The owner remembered them vividly, gushing about how Larry was the most patient man she’d ever seen, not once looking at his phone the entire time they were there. But on that exact day, I had been burning up with a high fever. I had called him over a dozen times, but there was no answer. He only called back in the middle of the night, saying he’d been busy with work, his phone on silent. He certainly was busy. Busy pampering his mistress behind his wife’s back. I took photos and recorded everything, then wiped away my tears and headed home. The moment he saw me, the kitchen knife in Larry’s hand clattered to the floor. He looked like he’d seen a ghost, and it took him a long moment to choke out my name. “Nikki?” I ran a hand through my hair and held out the lover’s knot. “Surprised?” His panic intensified, his voice trembling. “What surprise?” “The hair color you recommended, the artisan shop… they really are quite nice.” I tilted my head. “Why do you look like that? Did you do something to feel guilty about?” He instinctively looked down, unable to meet my gaze. But the thumb on his right hand was rubbing furiously against his index finger, the skin already turning red. I remained silent, my eyes locked on him. I wasn’t sure what I felt more—anger, or a desperate hope for something, anything. But after a long, tense silence, all he managed was a dry, “I’m tired.” In that instant, something inside me died. I dodged the kiss he leaned in for, muttering an excuse about a conference call, and fled the house. He stood there, stunned for a second, before rushing after me. “At least have something to eat first! I made that savory yam and pork porridge you like…” My phone buzzed. It was a voice message from him. “Come home early. Tomorrow is Grandma’s eightieth birthday.” I replied without emotion. “I’m staying at the office tonight.” A birthday celebration? Of course, I would go. But first, there was somewhere more important I needed to be. 3 The Bloom Room. It was ten o’clock at night, but the shop was brightly lit. Through the large glass window, I watched the girl inside. She was wearing a simple linen dress, her features delicate and pretty without a touch of makeup, possessing a sort of fragile, pitiable beauty. So this was the type Larry really liked. But when he was chasing me, he’d sworn he loved my bright, vibrant energy, that I was like a little sun that had warmed his heart. I shook my head with a bitter smile. A person’s heart can change, so why not their taste? She was cooing at a small puppy, talking to herself. She seemed to be smiling, but her voice was thick with unshed tears. “Coco, Daddy said he’s not coming tonight. Tomorrow is Grandma’s birthday, but he doesn’t want to take Mommy to see her.” “He’s hiding something from me, Coco. But Mommy is a coward. I’m too scared to pull back the curtain and see what’s there.” A few teardrops fell silently onto the puppy’s fur. Just like my completely shattered heart. I took a deep breath and pushed the door open. “If you don’t pull it back, how will you ever know what’s hiding behind it?” The girl scrambled to wipe her face and offered a shy, flustered smile. “I’m so sorry, you had to see that. Welcome.” I fought back the ache in my own chest and feigned curiosity. “Is something wrong? Are you having a tough time?” Maybe it was the pitter-patter of the rain outside that sparked her desire to confide, or maybe the simple fact that I was another woman made her trust me. After a moment’s hesitation, her story came tumbling out. “My boyfriend and I have been together for six months,” she began, her expression troubled. “He’s so good to me—caring, attentive, and he’s not afraid to spend money on me. My mom doesn’t approve. She says a man his age—he’s eight years older—is either married or divorced. But last month, when my lease was up, he bought this flower shop for me outright. He said it was an engagement gift.” I thought my heart couldn't break any further. But seeing the sweet, unconscious smile that spread across her face as she spoke, it felt like an invisible hand was squeezing my heart, twisting it relentlessly. It was hard to breathe, but I forced myself to ask, “That sounds wonderful, doesn’t it?” Lost in her own sorrow, she didn’t notice my distress. “Later, my parents said they wanted him to come over for dinner. But he refused, flat out. He always says he’s worried people will judge him for our age gap, so he never introduces me to anyone he knows. And the worst part is, tomorrow is his grandmother’s eightieth birthday, and he won’t let me go. No matter how upset I get, he just says he’ll pass along my well-wishes for me.” Her voice cracked. “Am I that much of an embarrassment to him? Or maybe… maybe I’m just his… mistress.” She choked on the last word, the shame clear on her face. So, just like me, she was another fool being played by Larry. I stared at the raw vulnerability on her face, and all the sharp, cutting words I had prepared suddenly felt hollow. In the end, I simply wrote down the address for the birthday dinner, left it on the counter, and turned to leave. The rain was coming down harder now. Suddenly, a familiar figure dashed past me. He was in such a hurry he didn’t even see me huddled in the shadows. “Claire, I’m so sorry I’m late!” I heard him call out. “Look, I had our picture made into a little desktop frame. Do you like it?” The girl’s voice, now filled with surprised delight, rang out. “It’s beautiful! When did you have this done?” “The other day, when I went to get my… my ID photo taken, I had the shop make it specially…” Rain streamed down my face, mingling with my tears. My car arrived. It was time for me to go.
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