“The muffler. Brakes soon. Transmission’s starting to slip.”
“How much?”
He did not answer.
“Ben, how much?”
“More than the car is worth.”
I folded my arms.
“So what did Mike say?”
“Sell it.”
“Okay.”
Something still wasn’t right.
“We can discuss getting another car tonight.”
Ben looked at me.
“No.”
“No what?”
“We can’t.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
His face changed.
I had known this man for nine years.
Married him for seven.
I knew when he was annoyed, tired, lying about liking my mother’s lasagna, or pretending he remembered the name of someone from my office.
I had never seen the expression he wore then.
Shame.
Pure shame.
“Ben?”
He looked toward the kitchen window.
Sophie was inside, digging through the dishwasher for reasons known only to six-year-olds.
“We need to talk.”
My stomach dropped again.
“Are you having an affair?”
“No.”
“Then say whatever you’re trying not to say.”
He closed his eyes.
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