“Yes, she’s registered on the room reservation,” Sarah said, her voice dropping a register as she looked at my face. She must have seen the change in my eyes. I didn’t look like a happy wife anymore. I looked like a ghost.

Without another word, she slid a key card across the counter. I don’t even think she was supposed to do that, but she looked terrified of what I might do if she didn’t.

I walked to the elevator. The metal walls were cold. The ride up to the fourth floor felt like it took twenty years. My hands were wet with sweat, and the cardboard box of chicken wings was leaking grease onto my sleeve.

I stood outside Room 412. I could hear the television playing inside. It was a home renovation show. I swiped the card. The light blinked green.

I pushed the door open.

The room was a standard king suite. The bed was messy. There was an open bottle of pinot grigio on the dresser with two glasses. A black wool coat was thrown over the desk chair. It was Lori’s coat. The one I helped her pick out at TJ Maxx.

Then I saw the shoes.

I walked over to the bed, dropped the box of chicken wings into the trash can by the desk, and sat down on the edge of the mattress. The bathroom door was shut. The shower was running, a steady, rhythmic hiss of hot water. I could hear them talking over the noise. I couldn’t make out the words, but I heard Lori laugh. It was her high, giggling laugh that she always used when she was trying to charm someone.

I sat there for 22 minutes. I know it was 22 minutes because I kept looking at the digital clock on the nightstand. 7:42. 7:55. 8:04.

My mind was completely empty. I wasn’t planning what to say. I wasn’t crying. I just felt very cold, like my blood had turned to well water.

The shower stopped. A few minutes later, the door clicked open.

Lori came out first. She was drying her neck with a small white towel. She saw me and her whole body locked up. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out for several seconds.

“It’s not what you think,” she whispered. It was such a cliché. It was the stupidest thing she could have said.

Dan came out behind her. He had a larger towel around his waist. He saw me, stopped, and then he sighed. It wasn’t a sigh of guilt. It was the sigh of a man whose golf game had been rained out.

“You shouldn’t have come here, Susan. You’re ruining our weekend,” he said.

“Our weekend,” I repeated. My voice sounded very small, like it was coming from the bottom of a dry pipe.

“Look, let’s not make a big deal out of this here,” Dan said, walking over to the dresser and pouring himself some wine. “We’ve been distant for years, Susan. You know it. I know it. Lori and I… we just connected. It didn’t start out as anything bad.”

“You connected,” I said.

“Susan, please,” Lori sobbed, stepping toward me. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear. It just happened. We fell in love.”

I looked at her. I looked at her face, which looked so much like mine, but younger, softer. I looked at the red heels on the floor.

“Are those the shoes I bought you?” I asked.

Lori looked down at her feet, then back at me. She started crying harder. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I stood up. I didn’t yell. I didn’t slap either of them. I walked over, picked up the red heels by the straps, and put them inside my purse. I zipped it shut.

“Hey, those are hers,” Dan said, taking a sip of his wine.

“I paid for them,” I said.

I turned around and walked out of the room. I walked down the long carpeted hallway, got into the elevator, and walked past Sarah at the front desk. She looked at me with pity, but I kept my head straight.

I got into my Buick. The air inside the car was freezing. I started the engine, turned the heater on high, and sat there. My hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t put the car in reverse. I felt a deep, heavy ache in the center of my chest, like something had been torn out with pliers.