I ignored every instinct, screaming that something was wrong. “Yeah,” I said, trying not to sound too eager. “Yeah, that sounds nice.” We haven’t been to something like that together in a while. “Exactly. It’ll be good for us.” I went shopping for a new dress that weekend. Jade green, fitted, elegant, the kind of dress that used to make Levi stop whatever he was doing and tell me I looked beautiful.
I got my hair done at a salon I couldn’t really afford. I bought new heels that pinched my toes but made my legs look good. I convinced myself that maybe this event would be the reset we needed. The night we’d reconnect and remember why we got married in the first place. I was so painfully desperately wrong, but I didn’t know that yet.
Not while I was getting ready. Not while I was driving to the Phoenician separately because Levi said he had to stop by the office first. Not while I was standing in that elegant ballroom thinking maybe tonight would be different. I didn’t know yet that the fundraiser wasn’t going to save my marriage. It was going to be the night I finally stopped lying to myself about what my husband had become.
The night he’d tell me to walk away in front of everyone we knew and the night I’d start planning exactly how to make him regret it. The Friday of the gala arrived faster than I was ready for. I spent the afternoon getting ready with an anxious energy I couldn’t quite name, telling myself it was excitement, that tonight would be good for us, that maybe Levi’s invitation meant he was trying.
He came home around 5 to my jade green dress, hairstyled in loose waves that had taken the salon an hour to perfect. I waited for him to notice, to say something, to give me any indication that he saw me. He walked past me toward the bedroom without a word. “You look nice,” I offered, watching him pull his suit from the closet.
“Thanks,” he said absently, checking his phone. I stood in the doorway while he changed, watching him adjust his tie in the mirror for what must have been the fourth time. He tilted his head, smoothed down the fabric, checked his profile from both angles. “More attention than he’d given me in months. So, should we leave around 6:30?” I asked.
