I planned the surprise party for three months. David had been stressed from work — at least, that is what I thought — and I wanted to do something meaningful for his forty-second birthday. I called his friends, I called his college roommates, I booked the restaurant back room, I ordered the cake he had mentioned wanting when he was a child.
The party started at seven. David was supposed to arrive at seven-fifteen.
By seven-ten, there were forty people in that room — and six of them I had never seen in my life. They introduced themselves as colleagues. They seemed surprised to meet me. One of them said something offhand about “David’s place downtown.”
David did not have a place downtown. We had a house in the suburbs.
When David walked in and saw those six people standing next to me, his face did something I will never forget. It was not surprise. It was calculation — a rapid, private calculation happening behind his eyes while he smiled for everyone else.
I held it together for the entire party. I smiled. I thanked people for coming. I served cake.
When we got home, I asked him about the apartment downtown. He told me the truth. He had been renting it for three years. He said he needed “space to think.”
I told him he was going to have a lot of space very soon.
The divorce was final eight months later. I kept the house. He kept his apartment downtown and whatever thinking he does there.
I still have the leftover cake recipe. It was very good.