Mark and I had been together for six great years. We had known each other for years before, having worked in the same building. But Mark was the building’s Casanova, constantly dating someone new. Despite that, when Mark was ready to settle down, he chose me. And now, six years later, we were still in our honeymoon phase. Or so I thought. Last weekend, Mark told me he needed to go into the office. “I just need to catch up on paperwork, Amy,” he said. “Maybe I’ll bring everything home, and I can work from here.” “Do that,” I said. “Nobody wants to be in their office on a Saturday.” Mark kissed me on my forehead, promised to bring home Indian food, and ran out.
After a few hours, I figured that Mark had just gotten comfortable at his desk and would only return when he was done. I couldn’t complain. I wanted to curl up with a book and a cup of tea. Saturdays were for self-care — and that was the new lesson I wanted to live by. A chapter into my book, my phone buzzed, an intrusion that I initially dismissed until I saw Tom’s name flashing on the screen. Tom, my husband’s best friend, was like family to us, so his voicemail immediately piqued my interest. “Hi,” Tom said into the phone. “I’m running a little late for our double date. I’ll be there at around 2 PM, okay? It’s Coachella, right?”
Tom’s voice, always cheerful, echoed in the quiet room. Confusion furrowed my brow. What double date? I thought. Mark hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort to me. All he said was that he needed to work and that he would try to bring his work home — so that we could still spend the day together. I replayed the message, hoping that I’d misunderstood. But no, there was Tom’s voice, clear as day, talking about a double date.i left my half-drunk cup of tea and open book on my bedside table and got dressed quickly. It was almost 2 PM. I didn’t want to believe that Mark was lying to me. But why would Tom mention a double date if it wasn’t true? I thought.The need for answers propelled me forward. I needed to see what was happening for myself. Coachella turned out to be an outdoor restaurant — which tried to keep the festival theme running with loud music and low-hanging decor. It was easy for me to blend with the surroundings,
I chose a secluded spot, where I had a clear view of the entrance, without being seen. The wait was agonizing, and the longer I sat there, the more I expected to see Mark. I ordered a cocktail to calm my nerves. Then, Mark walked in, not alone, as I had desperately hoped, but with a woman draped across his arm. She was striking, dressed in designer gear from head to toe, the very definition of a Gucci mama. My heart sank. I watched Mark and his woman head over to a table almost obscured by hanging plants, where Tom and his wife, Sasha, were seated. They both jumped up and hugged the happy couple. The voicemail was clearly meant for Mark only. I watched them for a little longer — watching Mark gaze adoringly at her, and stroke the back of her neck with his fingers. Yet, amid a whirlwind of emotions, a cold resolve settled over me. This was the moment for action, not tears. I called over a waiter, my voice calm but firm. “The most expensive champagne you have, for that table,” I instructed, pointing discreetly towards Mark. The waiter, sensing the undercurrent of drama, complied with a nod and a small smile. As the champagne arrived at their table, the confusion and forced smiles on their faces were a small victory. Even above the music and chatter, I heard Mark’s laugh. I snapped a photo of them in their faux-celebration and within moments, shared it online, tagging Mark. A few minutes passed, and I continued to sip on my cocktail, waiting. Mark’s reaction, once he saw the notification, was priceless. The color drained from his face as he frantically searched the room — still not finding me. Desperate, he tried calling me. I watched my phone ring, detached, as his calls went unanswered. I called the waiter over one more time and requested a piece of paper and one more bottle of champagne. To a memorable double date and our divorce, cheers! I wrote, signing off at the bottom. I left the restaurant feeling hurt and betrayed, my momentary bravery slipping away. Mark came home that evening and packed his things, saying that he was going to Tom’s house. He apologized and said that he was just having fun. Apparently, he needed to let off some steam from work stress. It’s been a week, and we haven’t spoken since. But I think it’s time for me to file the divorce papers.