I wanted to press him, but after spending my life knowing this man, I knew that an argument at this stage would only build walls.
So I waited.
I wanted to squeeze him.
A week later, the remote died in the middle of a show I was watching. I went to get some batteries from Troy’s desk.
I opened the drawer and found a stack of hotel receipts neatly arranged under some old mail.
Troy sometimes went to California, so I wasn’t worried until I saw that the hotel was in Massachusetts.
Each receipt corresponded to the same hotel, the same room number… to dates dating back months.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at them until my hands went numb.
Each receipt corresponded to the same hotel.
I was trying to find logical reasons for him to go to Massachusetts, but I couldn’t come up with anything.
I counted them. Eleven receipts. Eleven trips about which he had lied.
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