“My husband just invited his boss over for dinner,” he said, like he was announcing a trip to the grocery store. Just like that. Casual. My blood ran cold. It was 4 PM on a Friday.
“Tonight?” I stammered, my voice barely a whisper. My mind raced through the state of our apartment, the empty fridge, the general chaos that was my life after a long week. Impossible. We have nothing. He just shrugged, already back to his phone. “Yeah, he just called. Said he was in town, wrapping up a big deal. Thought it’d be good to connect outside the office.” Good to connect. Good to connect? This wasn’t connecting, this was an ambush.
My heart began its frantic drumming. My husband was ambitious. Achingly, fiercely ambitious. This wasn’t just a dinner; it was an audition. For me. For us. For our life. I spent the next three hours in a blur of frantic cleaning and improvisational cooking, pulling ingredients from the back of the pantry like a magician. Every surface gleamed, every cushion fluffed. I even managed a passable chicken dish with some forgotten herbs. He has to be impressed. I had to be impressive.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
The doorbell chimed precisely at seven. My husband practically sprinted to open it. I smoothed down my dress, took a deep breath, and forced a smile onto my face.
And then I saw him.
His boss. Tall, impeccably dressed, with a confident, easy smile that seemed to fill the room. He exuded success, charisma. And something else. Something… familiar. My smile wavered. No. It’s just a common face. I’m imagining things.
We exchanged pleasantries. His handshake was firm, his eyes kind, but there was a flicker of something in them that made my stomach clench. A recognition I couldn’t place. Or didn’t want to place. I dismissed it as nerves. My own nerves. I was under immense pressure.
Dinner was a masterclass in professional charm. My husband was in his element, regaling his boss with stories, anecdotes, insights. He was desperate to impress, and it was almost painful to watch. The boss, for his part, was gracious, attentive, and effortlessly engaging. He asked questions, he listened, he shared snippets of his own life.
He spoke about his college days. “Funny,” he mused, “I ended up in a completely different field than what I studied. Majored in ancient history, believe it or not. Spent most of my free time in the debating club, though.”
My fork clattered against my plate. My husband didn’t notice, still laughing at something the boss had said. My breath hitched. Debating club? Ancient history? My mind was suddenly a swirling vortex of memories I had meticulously buried for over a decade.
“Oh, really?” I managed, my voice a strained whisper. “Which university did you go to?”
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
He smiled, a gentle, knowing smile. “Just a small state school, not one of the big ivies. But it had a surprisingly good program. Upstate. Beautiful campus, especially in the fall.”
My blood ran cold. Upstate. Debating club. Ancient history. The details were aligning with a sickening precision. A long-forgotten ghost was clawing its way out of the grave I had dug for it.
He took a sip of wine, then casually adjusted the cuff of his shirt. And there it was. A small, distinctive scar, just above his left wrist. A jagged line I remembered tracing with my thumb, a lifetime ago. A moment of youthful recklessness. Of desperate, foolish passion.
OH MY GOD.
My head began to swim. My vision blurred around the edges. It was him. The man. The brief, intense, utterly devastating affair I had during my sophomore year of college. The mistake that nearly ruined me. The secret I had sworn to take to my own grave, locked away in a box deep inside my mind, never to be opened again. The man I had loved and left, foolishly, blindly, recklessly. The man whose existence I had erased from my personal history.
He looked at me then, those kind, knowing eyes holding mine. A flicker of something, something undeniably familiar, passed between us. He didn’t flinch. He just held my gaze.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
My husband, oblivious to the silent earthquake shattering my world, continued to chatter. “Speaking of college,” he said, turning to me, his smile wide. “Remember that story you told me about getting stuck in the library during that huge snowstorm? The one where you ended up spending the night, drinking coffee with some random guy from the debating club?”
My heart stopped. My husband chuckled, a warm, genuine sound. “You said he majored in ancient history! Always thought that was such a funny coincidence, given your love for mysteries. He even had a scar on his wrist, you said. What a crazy night!”
He looked at his boss. “Small world, huh? Who’d have thought?”
The boss just smiled, a slow, deliberate smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He raised his glass to me. “Indeed,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “A very small world.”
My husband’s hand found mine under the table, squeezing it reassuringly. He looked at me, a silent question in his eyes. He didn’t know. He couldn’t. My husband couldn’t possibly know. He was just being friendly. It was a coincidence. A terrible, cruel coincidence.
But then his eyes shifted to the boss. And in that brief, almost imperceptible glance, there was no surprise. No shock. There was a flicker of something else. Something cold. Something triumphant.
He knew.
My husband knew. He had known all along.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
He didn’t invite his boss over. He invited him over. And this wasn’t an audition for his career. It was an interrogation. For me.
