The Storm Before

Claire's hair was still damp from the rain when she walked into the apartment. She found him sitting on the sofa, his back to her, shoulders hunched around something glowing in his hands—his iPhone. The screen illuminated his face in the dark room, casting harsh shadows that made him look like a stranger.

Outside, lightning flashed across the sky, followed by the low rumble of thunder that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. The storm had been building all afternoon, much like the knot in Claire's stomach.

"Who is she?" Claire asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

Mark jumped, nearly dropping the phone. He turned slowly, his palm coming up to rub at his jaw—a nervous tic she'd memorized over three years together. "What?"

"Don't. Please. Just don't." She set her keys on the counter with deliberate precision. "I saw the messages. The hair color compliments, the late-night texts. How long?"

"Claire, it's not—" he started, then stopped himself. His eyes flickered to the window, where another fork of lightning split the darkness. "It's complicated."

"No, it's actually quite simple. You're married, and yet here we are. Again."

This wasn't the first time. Last time, it had been a colleague from work. Before that, someone he met at a conference. Each time, Mark swore it meant nothing, that he was misunderstood, that Claire was being dramatic. Each time, she'd believed him—until the next time.

"You're full of bull, Mark. You always have been." She'd never used that word before; it felt strange on her tongue, yet liberating. "I'm done believing your lies."

"Claire, please—"

"No." She picked up her keys again. "I'll send for my things tomorrow. Just—don't call me."

As she walked out into the storm-swept night, her phone buzzed in her pocket with a text from him. She didn't look. For the first time in years, she didn't care what he had to say. The rain felt like cleansing on her face as she stepped toward her car, and somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled like applause.