Chapter 26

THEN:

Laughter bubbled through the dining room of the elegant, candlelit home. Angela Jennings, with her bright blue eyes dancing merrily, shared a light-hearted story about their youngest's latest escapade in finger painting. The gathered friends, a medley of old college companions and newer acquaintances from the children's school, leaned in, captivated by her animated recounting.

"Pure Picasso," Angela concluded, her voice soft yet filled with mirth, eliciting a round of chuckles.

"Though I fear our walls are her preferred canvas," Will added, his warm tone carrying across the table, drawing a collective laugh.

"Thankfully, washable paints were invented," a friend interjected, raising his glass in mock toast.

Angela's gaze drifted, catching Will as he turned toward the woman beside him, a single woman new to their social circle. His hand lightly brushed hers as he passed the salt, their shoulders inching closer in the cozy atmosphere. Laughter spilled from his lips again, this time in a more intimate timbre, paired with a glance that lingered too long for Angela's comfort.

"Isn't that right, Will?" one of the guests called out, pulling him back into the wider conversation.

"Absolutely," he responded, but his eyes flickered back to the woman with a familiarity that twisted Angela's stomach into knots.

"More wine, Angela?" the hostess offered, breaking her fixation on the unfolding scene. She nodded, forcing a smile as her glass was refilled, its ruby contents swirling like her rising unease.

"Delicious," she murmured, the word tasting sour against her tongue.

"Angela?" Concern tinged Will's voice as he finally noticed her. "You okay?"

"Yes, why wouldn't I be? I'm fine, just… fine," she reassured, but her heart thundered a protest.

Memories of her mother's words echoed in her mind, a soothing mantra meant to dispel the shadows of doubt. After their last fight, she had come over and sat down with her, telling her she was acting crazy.

"You're creating stories, Angie." Her mother's voice was firm, unwavering. "Nothing is going on with Will. Nothing points to him cheating on you. You have to stop this madness. You will end up pushing him away."

She had to believe her mother was right. Trust was the bedrock upon which they'd built their life together. It was all in her head. It had to be.

"Excuse me," Angela whispered, her chair scraping softly as she stood. She avoided Will's questioning look, feeling the weight of the room's eyes as she slipped away. Her hands trembled slightly, not from the chill of the hallway but from the effort of keeping the storm inside her at bay.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind her. She leaned against the cool marble countertop, willing her reflection to show the strong, composed woman she needed to be. Trust him, she silently implored herself. You have to trust him.

Angela's fingers curled around the porcelain sink. She inhaled deeply, the cool air of the bathroom filling her lungs, steadying her. The scent of lavender soap mingled with her perfume, a calming presence.

Exhale.

Her reflection in the mirror no longer showed a woman on the edge but one determined to keep her composure.

"Trust him," she whispered to her image, a silent plea etched into her features. Another breath. "It's all in your head."

She straightened her blouse and smoothed down her skirt. Angela Jennings was not one to unravel, not here, not in front of friends. With one last glance, she opened the door and stepped back into the fray.

The buzz of conversation welcomed her return, a symphony of clinking glasses and shared laughter. Will's laughter rose above it all, too loud, too bright. Angela's gaze fixed on him and the woman whose hand now rested just a hair's breadth away from his on the linen-covered table.

"Everything okay?" The host's inquiry barely registered.

"Absolutely," Angela replied, her tone light, betraying nothing. She sat back down and reached for the bottle of Merlot, its dark promise grounding her. The liquid splashed into the glass, the sound sharp in her ears.

"Great party," she said, louder now, her voice finding strength. A half-smile played on her lips as she lifted the wine to them, savoring the bold flavor that failed to mask the bitterness creeping back into her throat.

Will's eyes met hers across the room, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. But then he turned back, drawn into the orbit of the woman beside him once again.

The tightness in Angela's chest wound tighter, a coil ready to snap. She sipped again, the warmth of the wine spreading through her, a feeble armor against the chill of doubt.

Angela's hand trembled, the glass of Merlot a sudden weight. She watched, as if from outside herself, the scene unfolding. Laughter rippled from Will, an intimate sound shared with the woman beside him; her soft chuckles a melodic harmony to his baritone mirth. His hand now lay atop hers, their fingers inches from intertwinement.

"Excuse me," Angela murmured to no one in particular, her voice a ghost of its usual tenderness. She rose unnoticed, her chair scraping softly against the hardwood floor.

A step forward. Two steps. Her heart galloped, a frantic rhythm in her ears. The room seemed to stretch, time elongating as she bridged the space between betrayal and confrontation.

"Will," she said, louder now, but he didn't hear—or chose not to. His world had narrowed to the circle of light cast by the table's candles, illuminating the single woman who had become his solar system.

Angela's grip tightened. The stem snapped. Crimson spilled over her knuckles, that stood out on her pale skin. With a surge that funneled all her anger into a singular point of release, Angela hurled the contents of her glass.

Merlot arced through the air, a scarlet comet heading for a collision course with Will's face. Impact. Droplets scattered like shrapnel, some finding refuge on the white tablecloth, others on the faces of stunned guests.

Silence detonated in the aftermath. Silverware clattered to a stop. Conversations cut short. Eyes wide, mouths agape.

"Angela!" Will sputtered, wine dripping from his chin, his surprise giving way to indignation.

"Is this what we've become?" Angela's voice cracked the silence, sharp, carrying. "Am I just the ghost at your feast, Will?"

"Angela, what?—?"

"No." She cut him off, stepping closer, her presence unyielding. "You're so busy charming every woman but your wife. Ignoring me, us, while you indulge in… in this!"

"Angie, please, it's not—" Will attempted to stand, to reach for her, but she recoiled.

"Save it!" She punctuated each word with pointed jabs of her finger. "I watch you. I see how you are with them. Laughing. Touching. Where is that man when he's with me?"

"Angela, let's talk about this," Will's tone softened, the plea clear in his eyes.

"Talk? Like you 'talk' to her?" Angela swept her arm toward the woman, whose face had paled, caught in the crossfire.

"Angela, don't do this here," Will implored, but the levee had broken. "I'm sorry everyone…."

"Here is exactly where we do this, Will! Because it's always here, among them, that I lose you!" Her voice swelled with a mix of sorrow and fury.

"Angie, you're overreacting," Will tried to reason, his anger simmering beneath the surface. "Am I not allowed to talk to anyone but you?"

"Overreacting?" Angela laughed, a harsh sound. "No, this is me reacting, Will. This is me tired of being invisible."

Angela stood, breaths coming fast, the taste of bile and Merlot in her mouth. She stared at the wreckage before her—a nice dinner turned battlefield—and knew there was no retreat, only the grim march forward.

A plate shattered against the wall, a hair's breadth from Will's head.

"Angela, stop!" he shouted as another missile—this time, a fork—narrowly missed him.

"Shut up!" Angela's voice was a whip-crack in the dining room, her usually gentle blue eyes ablaze with an incendiary rage that belied her nurturing nature.

"Angie, please," Will's plea drowned under the clatter of silverware raining down on him.

"Please? Please?" Each word was punctuated by the thud of objects hitting the walls, the floor, and the table. "You never begged when you were ignoring me!"

"Angie, look at me. Look at me!" Will stood firm, arms raised defensively, trying to bridge the chasm of fury between them.

She lunged, hands clawing. Instinctively, he caught her wrists, pulling her into his chest, absorbing the kinetic wrath into his own body. "This is not you," he whispered, breath hot on her ear.

"Let go! You don't know me!" Her struggles were frantic and desperate, but slowly, the fire dimmed, choked out by sobs that racked her frame.

"I'm here, Angie. I'm not having an affair, I swear." His words wrapped around her like a blanket, soft and insistent.

"Then why?" she gasped, her voice muffled against his shirt. "Why do you push me away?" The vulnerability coiled within her, a wounded animal caged by its own despair.

"Angie, I'm not," Will's voice cracked, the lie of omission heavy on his tongue. He held her tighter, willing his heartbeat to steady hers. "I'm right here."

"Here," she echoed, the word hollow. "But not with me. Never with me."

"Always with you." He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze, to see the truth—or at least the semblance of it—shining back at her.

"I wanna go home."

Angela ripped herself from Will's grasp, the fabric of his shirt still clutched in her trembling fingers. She staggered back, the image of their entwined shadows on the wall imprinting itself into her memory like a dark omen. Without a word, she turned, the echoes of her heels against the hardwood floor punctuating her departure. She ran to the car and got in, then waited for Will to join her. They drove home in silence.

The living room lay ahead, drenched in the soft glow of the evening light filtering through half-drawn curtains. Angela collapsed onto the couch, the cushions embracing her fall, while Will paid the babysitter and then went up to the bedroom without uttering a word to her. Her hands sought the familiar comfort of the throw pillows—tools of domestic bliss now smothered by the weight of her crumbling trust.

She lay there, her body a sprawl of abandonment, staring at the ceiling where the chandelier's crystals cast a mosaic of broken light across the plaster. Anger seethed within her, hot and acrid, gnawing at the edges of her composure.

"Perfect," she murmured to the empty room, the word a bitter twist on her lips. Their friends' laughter and wine glasses clinking now seemed distant memories. Betrayal, an unseen guest at the dinner party, had claimed its seat at the table.

Her thoughts spiraled with the ferocity of a storm. Every smile he had given that woman, each touch of his hand on her back—a tally of transgressions real or imagined. Angela's mind raced, replaying the evening's events, dissecting every gesture, every glance. In the quiet aftermath, doubt crept in, whispering sinister tales to her heart.

"Is there more?" she whispered into the dimming light, tracing patterns on the fabric of the couch as if it could yield answers. Her gaze settled on a photo of them on the mantelpiece, captured in a moment of genuine joy. How had they come to this—a tableau of affection now tinged with the hue of suspicion?

"It can't be just me."

Her voice cracked, the sound alien in the silence. She drew her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around herself—a solitary attempt at self-preservation amidst the onslaught of uncertainty.

"There must be more to it…," she repeated, her voice trailing off as she sunk deeper into the couch's embrace, her sanctuary in the tempest of her emotions. The house, once filled with the melody of their life together, now resounded with the dissonance of unanswered questions.

Angela's chest heaved, each breath a battle against the swell of emotions that threatened to consume her. The soft fabric of the couch cradled her weary body as she lay there, a silent sentinel in the darkness that now filled the room. Her eyes, once bright with warmth and kindness, flickered in the gloom—haunted.

"Trust," she whispered to the shadows, the word a hollow promise in the empty space. She searched for it, clawed for the certainty that love was meant to bring. But trust was a specter, slipping through her fingers like mist.

She shifted, restless, the elegant lines of her form etched with tension. Her fingers curled into the throw pillow, gripping it like a lifeline as her mind raced—a relentless tide of doubts and fears. What secrets did Will harbor behind those easy smiles? Was their life together just a well-crafted facade?

"I deserve answers," she murmured, the word less a demand now, more a plea to the universe. She wanted—no, needed—the truth, even if it shattered the fragile peace of ignorance.

Am I just losing my mind? Is my mom right?

But the weight of the night, the strain of the earlier confrontation, bore down on her. With her eyelids as heavy as lead, she fought against the pull of sleep, her resolve waning. Angela's breaths grew shallower, steadier, a reluctant surrender to exhaustion.

"Tomorrow," she resolved, a whispered vow carried off by slumber. "I'll find out. I'm no fool, Will Jennings. I will not let you make a fool of me."

And with that final thought lingering in the stillness, Angela slipped into a troubled sleep. Her form, a graceful silhouette cast in moonlight, breathed slowly, deeply—yet her brow furrowed with the ghosts of doubt that haunted her dreams.