No wonder.”
But I stayed. I told myself he was just hurt. I told myself we would get through it.
I should have listened to my gut instead of my heart. One Saturday a few months ago, Luke suggested we host a game night “to lift the mood.” He said it with that easy grin he always wore when trying to look casual, but I had been noticing things. Luke had been working late more often, putting passwords on his phone, even hiding his laptop.
But I told myself I was being paranoid. So I threw myself into preparing the night as if it would save our marriage. I lit candles, laid out chips and dip, and even made custom cocktails.
We invited our regular group, including others—our friend Derek, my husband’s best friend and the life of the party, and his girlfriend Mia, along with my best friend since high school, Emily. Emily was the one person who knew everything about me. She was my rock when my dad passed away, and my maid of honor.
The one who held my hand in the hospital during my second miscarriage when Luke could not even make it back from a “work trip.”
The game that night was “Who Am I?” You write a name or phrase on a sticky note and stick it to someone’s forehead while they try to guess who or what they are. It’s silly, harmless fun—or so I thought. Everything started in a lighthearted way.
People would guess, “Am I Beyoncé?” or “Am I a raccoon?” We were laughing so hard my stomach hurt, and I nearly spilled sangria all over the couch! For the first time in months, I felt almost normal again. Then came Luke’s turn.
He closed his eyes and leaned forward like he was onstage, laughing as Derek stuck a sticky note to his forehead. Everyone giggled immediately—not polite giggles, but the kind you try to hide when you’re watching a prank about to unfold. I glanced around the room and felt something tighten in my chest.
Luke grinned. “Oh boy, what did you guys put on me this time? Okay, let’s do this.
Am I a man?”
“Yes,” Derek said, eyes dancing. “Alive?”
“Yep,” said Mia, sipping her drink. “Famous?”
“Nope,” Derek said quickly.
“Am I… a good person?”
There was a pause. Then someone—I think it was Jared from work—burst out laughing so hard he choked on a cracker.
The energy shifted, and the laughter was no longer fun; it was nervous. “What’s so funny?” I asked, my smile fading. Luke squinted, trying to read our faces.
“Okay, okay… am I a celebrity?”
“No,” someone said quickly. “Alright, then who the hell am I?”
Then Derek pointed a finger at Luke and said, “Maybe just read the note.”
Luke frowned, reached up, peeled it off his forehead, and read it. His expression changed instantly.
The blood drained from his face like someone had pulled a plug. He did not say a word. I took the note from his hand.
It was not from the stack of sticky notes I had set out or a celebrity name. It was a different kind—yellowed around the edges, and written in handwriting I knew like my own. I recognized the way the letters looped; it was hers.
I read it out loud: “I’m a cheater.”
The room fell silent, although I later discovered that everyone in the room knew about the cheating except me. I stared at the note, then at Luke. My voice cracked when I asked, “What is this supposed to mean?”
Luke cleared his throat.
“It’s a joke.”
But before I could say anything else, Emily—my Emily—started to cry. Her hands trembled in her lap, and her voice broke when she whispered, “He’s lying, Avery, it’s not a joke. I’m pregnant.”
It was like time stopped.
I could hear the soft buzz of the fridge from the kitchen, the dog snoring in the corner. My world went silent. “What?” I asked, almost too quietly to hear.
Emily, who’d once called Luke “the luckiest guy alive,” did not look at me. “He told me you could not give him a child, that he needed someone who could. He said he loved me and promised to leave you.”
I turned to Luke.
“Is this true?”
He slammed his fist against the table, making the glasses jump. “She’s lying! This is insane!”
Emily stood up, her voice louder now.
“You told me you only stayed for her dad’s inheritance. That once you had the money, you’d walk out!”
“You stupid—” Luke shouted. “Enough!” I yelled.
My voice shook, but I had never felt more certain. “You blamed me for something I could not control, belittled me for years, and now this? You cheated on me with my best friend?”
Luke opened his mouth, but Emily’s voice cut through like ice.
“You know what, Luke? Enjoy prison.”
She left her purse, coat, and everything but her phone behind as she ran out the door. Luke ran after her, barefoot on the cold concrete.
But before he reached the sidewalk, flashing blue lights bathed our street. Two police officers stepped out of a cruiser and ordered him to stop! I discovered, from the police, that Emily had already handed over all the proof—text messages, bank records, even voice recordings of Luke’s crime.
My so-called husband had been moving money from my late father’s trust account into a secret bank account under Emily’s name. He called it “investing.”
Luke was cuffed right there on the front porch, in front of our friends and me. He turned his head and screamed, “Avery, you set me up!”
