I feel a rare spark of joy on April 11th. I win a radio contest gift certificate to a luxurious spa in Atlanta, and I eagerly plan to savor this treat while my son, Samuel, attends school. The day unfolds like a gift—I pamper myself at the upscale spa, and I feel lighter, indulged, and alive in a way I haven’t in months. The world hums with possibility as I drive home along the sprawling Georgia highway, the glow of self-care still warming my heart.
Then my phone buzzes. Mitchell’s name flashes on the screen, and my breath catches. He rarely calls—his voice feels like a stranger in my day-to-day life. But today, his tone sounds different, almost warm. “Meet me for lunch,” he says, a request so out of character that it sends a ripple of surprise through me. Lunch with Mitchell? This rarity feels both thrilling and unsettling.
“I’d love to!” I reply, my voice bright with hope. “I’m just a couple of exits from your office—maybe fifteen, twenty minutes away.” I imagine pulling up to his workplace, a chance to bridge the growing distance between us.
“No,” Mitchell cuts in, his voice firm. “Meet me at the Wendy’s around the corner.”
The request lands oddly. Wendy’s? I never frequent this fast-food joint, far removed from the intimate lunches we once shared. And why not his office? His refusal to let me come to his workplace pricks at me, a subtle sting of unease I try to brush aside. I agree, pushing the doubts to the back of my mind, clinging to the hope of connection.
I arrive first at Wendy’s, the hum of the restaurant buzzing around me. I wait, the minutes stretching longer than they should. I grow restless, order a salad, and choose a table near the window, my eyes scanning for Mitchell. As I rise to grab condiments from the side bar, I spot Stephen, one of Mitchell’s coworkers, across the room. A familiar face—I wave, tilting my head to catch his eye, hoping for a friendly acknowledgment. But Stephen, engrossed in a phone call, doesn’t look up. His focus remains unbreakable, his expression distant, almost deliberate. My smile falters. It feels strange, but I dismiss it as a serious business call, nothing more.
Yet the moment lingers, a quiet thread of doubt weaving into my day. Little do I know, this lunch, this fleeting encounter, begins a truth that will unravel everything I think I know.
A Lunch That Haunts
The air in Wendy’s feels thick with an unease I can’t name as I sit at the table, my untouched salad growing limp. Then Mitchell arrives, his presence both a relief and a puzzle. Across the room, his coworker Stephen glances up from his phone, abruptly ends his call, and joins Mitchell. They stand together, their voices low, their conversation a private island I don’t receive an invitation to. Not once do either of them look my way, not a nod, not a glance. After a few minutes, Stephen leaves without a word, and Mitchell approaches the counter to order, his broad frame moving with a heaviness that mirrors my growing disquiet.
When he finally sits across from me, I notice the sheen of sweat on his brow, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. It isn’t unusual—Mitchell has hyperhidrosis, a condition that leaves him drenched even without exertion—but today, it seems more pronounced, as if his body betrays a deeper turmoil. “What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice soft with concern, hoping to bridge the distance between us.
He sighs, his eyes avoiding mine. “It’s Friday, Jocelyn. I’ve got that 2:00 p.m. sales call with the bosses. My numbers are slipping, and I’m worried.” His words carry a weight I recognize, the strain of a job that often consumes him.
My heart softens, and I want to ease his burden. “Mitchell, I’ve told you so many times—I can help. Tell me what you need, and I’ll do whatever I can from home to drum up leads, to support you.” I’ve offered this before, countless times, eager to be his partner in every sense.
His response cuts like a blade, sharp and dismissive. “It’s way above you.”
The words sting, a cruel jab that leaves me reeling. I bite my lip, swallow the hurt, and tell myself he is just stressed, that he doesn’t mean it. But the dismissal lingers, a crack in the foundation of our marriage I try to ignore. He eats his meal quickly, focused on his food, while my salad sits untouched, my appetite stolen by the unease settling in my chest.
Barely thirty minutes pass before we step outside into the humid Atlanta air. Mitchell reaches for my hand, his grip warm, and leads me to my car. He leans in, his lips kiss mine in a way that feels both familiar and foreign. “I love you,” he says, his voice soft, almost convincing. “I’ll see you tonight at home.”
“Okay,” I murmur, forcing a smile. “Good luck with the call. I hope it goes well.” As he walks away, I climb into my car, my hands trembling on the steering wheel. The drive home blurs, my heart heavy with worry for his job, for our future. I whisper a prayer, pleading for his security, for the stability we both need. But beneath it all, a quiet dread gnaws at me, a sense that something is deeply wrong.
Years pass since that lunch at Wendy’s off Exit 12, but the memory clings to me like a shadow. I never set foot in that place again, its neon sign a marker of a day that breaks something inside me. That moment—his cold words, his distant gaze, the coworker who won’t meet my eyes—serves as the first thread to unravel, a hint of the betrayal that soon tears my world apart. It’s a wound that still aches, a reminder of the love I pour out and the lies that wait in return.
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