“You know what it is, Adam.” My voice trembles.

“Yeah, okay, I can guess. Who sent it to you? And why would they do that?”

“It was sent to you.”

He blinks. Is his face getting redder? “What are you talking about?”

“When you were putting the girls to bed last night, someone texted this to you. I forwarded it to myself and deleted it off your phone.”

“You deleted it? Why? Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you tell me last night?” He presses his lips together. “And why are you checking my phone all of a sudden? Why would you do that?”

“I was putting your jacket in the dry-cleaning bag, and I saw it.”

“So you just... You... Why didn’t you tell me someone’s sending me porn?”

“Who sent it?”

“I don’t know!” His voice slaps off the stainless-steel appliances. “How should I know? Did you call them back? Let me see that again.” He grabs the phone back. “Private number.” He looks up at me. “Could be anybody.”

“Anybody sending a crotch shot, that is.” I sound like Jenny.

He stares at me. “Do you think I’m cheating on you?” His eyes are hard.

I don’t answer. All of a sudden, the tables are turned, and my face is the one that grows hot.

“Jesus, Rachel! Are you kidding me?”

“Keep your voice down,” I say. “Don’t wake the girls.”

“I’m sorry! I’m a little upset! My wife thinks I’m cheating on her. I guess she thinks I’m a really shitty person!”

“Adam, there’s a picture of...that on your phone. What am I supposed to think?”

“Maybe you could think ‘Hey, this must be a mistake, because my husband isn’t some douche-bag scum.’”

“I—I’m sorry, okay?” I take a breath, feel the burn of tears in my eyes. “It doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that would be sent by mistake, that’s all. I’d think you’d be really careful about getting the right number if you were sending that to someone.” Thank you, Leo.

“You told Jenny about this, didn’t you? I bet she had a fucking field day. She hates men these days.”

“She does not. And no, she didn’t have a field day. I showed her because...well, I wasn’t sure what it was. I hoped it was a mistake. I did. But I needed to talk to you about it, and it’s new territory, okay?”

He gives a short laugh. “Yeah. I guess so.” He takes a breath and releases it slowly. “I love you, Rachel. I thought you loved me, too. I’d hope you’d at least give me the benefit of the doubt.”

“Of course I love you, Adam. It’s just very...weird and horrible, and I didn’t know what to ask, or how to talk about this, or...or...”

“Do you believe me?”

His voice is cold and sharp, and suddenly, that terror rears up again.

I don’t want things to change. I have cupcakes to make tomorrow, six dozen, because the girls are all in a different preschool class, and each class needs two dozen cupcakes. Also, I call my mother-in-law every Sunday morning to give her a grandchild report, and what would I say if Adam is cheating on me? And Jenny’s just moved, and there are going to be long, happy dinners and lovely spring evenings on the back patio, and Adam...Adam cried when the girls were born. Really cried. He loves me, and he loves our daughters, and he loves our life.

“Rachel, do you believe me?” he asks again, more loudly.

“Yes. I do.”

He closes his eyes and lets out a long breath. “Thank you.” Then he comes around the counter behind me and slides his arms around me from behind. Kisses my neck. “Baby, I love you. The picture is disgusting, but come on. Don’t be so dramatic next time. Not that there’ll be a next time, please God.”

“You’re right.” Two tears slide down my cheeks, and honestly, I don’t know how to feel. Relieved? Sick? Happy?

I was wrong. It was a mistake.

We go upstairs. We make love. It’s good. It’s us. We know what the other likes, what to say and when, what moves to employ, where to touch for the best effect. It occurs to me that I’m glad our birth control is condoms, and then I push that thought out of my head.

We’re okay. We’re still us. Adam and me and the girls...everything is the same.

It’s just that everything feels so different.

Jenny

The next day, I have to go to the city for a fitting from a bride who’s so high-maintenance that asking her to come to Cambry-on-Hudson might well cause a brain aneurysm. The gown hangs in its blush-colored bag; I had a hundred of them ordered for Bliss, as well as special hangers that can hold up to twenty-five pounds, because some of these dresses are heavy. The bride, Kendall, is the kind who treats me like a servant, texting and complaining as I kneel at her side, pinning her last-minute changes and adjusting the seams since she’s lost ten pounds in the past two weeks out of sheer rage. To call her bridezilla would be unkind to Japan’s favorite monster.

But first, my sister.

Rachel texted me last night around ten, saying it was all a mistake, and she felt terrible for thinking Adam had cheated. I asked if I could call, but she said she was really tired.

I’m not sure I believe my brother-in-law, and I hate that I’m not sure.

When I first met Adam, Rachel was already overwhelmingly in love. Her first love, really, though she’d had a few boyfriends, always these rather nice, shy, geeky man-child types who wore Doctor Who T-shirts and spoke Klingon. But Adam was different, very sure of himself, and very charismatic. She glowed around him. They dated only a month or so before he proposed—asking for permission from Mom and me first, which won serious points with me and turned the event into an “I Miss Rob” occasion for Mom.