My husband had never once left home without his Apple Watch. So when it lit up on the kitchen counter with a message that said, “Last night was perfect,” I couldn’t look away. He had told me he’d been working late. I never mentioned what I’d seen. But when he left that morning, I quietly followed him.
Until that Thursday, I would’ve told anyone Cameron was the easiest man in the world to trust.
Not because he was flawless.
He wasn’t.
He loaded the dishwasher as if winning depended on it. He never remembered where we stored the batteries. And he was convinced every destination had a faster route involving at least one pointless shortcut.
But honesty seemed as natural to him as breathing.
If his phone rang while he was mowing the lawn, he would yell through the open window, “Can you see who it is?”
At dinner with friends, he left his phone on the table without a second thought.
We had never discussed passwords because neither of us had ever needed to.
—
A few months earlier, one of my coworkers admitted she had secretly searched through her husband’s messages.
“It was eating me alive, Mindy” she’d said.
Another woman nodded.
“I think everybody checks eventually.”
I laughed. “I don’t.”
They stared at me. “Never?”
I shook my head. “We’ve never needed that.”
That evening, I told Cameron about the conversation while we folded laundry.
He smiled down at the towels in his hands.
“I’d rather you ask me anything than spend a night wondering.”
It wasn’t some sweeping promise.
It was simply another ordinary sentence in the marriage I trusted completely.
—
Thursday morning began with coffee, bacon, and the sound of Cameron shaving upstairs.
I prepared his lunch while organizing the rest of my day in my head.
I needed to buy groceries, stop at the bookstore, and finally order the anniversary gift I’d been considering for weeks.
When I reached for a banana from the fruit bowl, I noticed Cameron’s Apple Watch charging beside it.
I frowned.
He never forgot it.
I picked it up, planning to carry it upstairs.
The screen suddenly brightened.
A notification appeared.
“Last night was perfect.”
There was no name.
Only those four words.
I stared until the display dimmed. When I tapped the screen, the message had vanished.
Upstairs, the bathroom door opened.
I quickly returned the watch to the exact spot where I’d found it and turned back toward the stove as the bacon crackled in the pan.
A few seconds later, Cameron entered the kitchen while adjusting his tie.
“Morning, Minnie Mouse.”
“Morning,” I replied.
He kissed my forehead, picked up his watch, and fastened it around his wrist without checking the screen.
“Something smells amazing.”
“You say that every Thursday, Cam.”
CONTINUED ON THE NEXT PAGE.
