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“You’re not Marc.”
“I’m pretty sure I’m not Steven.”
“You’re someone else.” Layla looks straight at him. At her husband. She can’t be sure — but she can. She knows Marc as well as she knows her own hands. The way he breathes, the way he stands. The cadence of his voice. She knows him. His idiosyncrasies, the parts that don’t line up? They are beginning to come into focus. “You don’t have to tell me. But you don’t have to pretend.”
Marc’s shoulders slump. (Marc’s? Not-Marc’s? There’s no tutorial for this.) “I’m very good at pretending.”
“You probably would have fooled me, if I wasn’t looking so close.” But she’s been vigilant, marking out every shift in posture. Every stray glance. She knew there was a third before Marc and Steven had even noticed they were missing time. Still, she’s sure he’s passed her by before. Just like she remembers Marc struggling through French one night, only to not remember in the morning, or the stormy days when he seemed to look through her.
“I guess it doesn’t matter, if it’s all out in the open.” He looks uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, if you…had plans.”
“They can wait.”
“Marc will back soon. He always is.” Marc (not-Marc) looks over her shoulder. “I’ll see you around, Layla. Don’t wait up.”