A/N
This was originally a drabble for my song drabbles, but I thought it deserved its own post. If anyone's curious, the song that inspired it was Fleetwood Mac's "Little Lies".
She knows. She has known for three months. She has chosen to turn a blind eye and now she doesn't know how to approach the subject. If she does, if she is officially aware, the only option is divorce. She is fine with open marriages, but only if those cards have been on the table to begin with. All players need to agree on the rules, not change them as they go. She doesn't want to back down on that, yet she has no choice. All major decisions they have made have always come with veto, but this was never discussed. They know each other so well even their arguments have been reduced to a kind of marriage stenography, both knowing exactly the buzzwords that triggers the other. She aims to avoid those tonight.
"How is Boston?" she asks, but she already knows that she could simply ask him "How is Ashley?" because that's what his mind centres around when he is in Boston. The athletic, 24-year-old intern that might have started out being interested only in James's intellect but now shares his bed in his Boston apartment most nights. She knows, not because she's an FBI profiler but because she's a woman. Because she's the wife.
"Boston is fine. Busy."
Alex smiles mechanically, remembering the scent of lilacs that lingered on his coat, the mascara smear on the pillow in his bed, the absence of his wedding band ("I've lost weight so it keeps falling off, I keep it on the nightstand") and the long blonde hairs in his hairbrush. The one most compromising thing is the extra toothbrush that he forgot to get rid of last time she came to visit him in the apartment. Yes, he's keeping busy when he's in Boston, alright.
She watches him as he puts the spaghetti into the boiling water, then stirs the tomato sauce a little. She wonders if he's cooking for Ashley too. Maybe she's there to have the dinner ready when he comes home.
James's cell phone, which is on the counter, beeps with an incoming text message. Alex raises an eyebrow, but James doesn't move away from the stove.
"You got a text," Alex says.
"I'm sure it can wait," he replies. "Why don't you go and have a quick shower, and dinner will be ready in about ten minutes," he adds, sounding completely casual.
"I think I will," she says, but first she picks up his phone from the counter. James freezes and sends a quick, but very telling, glance her way. Alex pretends not to notice, although her world shatters a little bit. Knowing is one thing. Fully comprehend is another. She hands the phone over to him without so much as peeking at the display.
"James?"
"Yes?"
"Keep it discreet."
He realises he has been caught, and his shoulders slump.
"Alex, I…"
She holds up a hand to stop him. She doesn't want this discussion. She's not sure she's ever going to confront it, but she is sure she's not going to confront it tonight.
"That's all I ask. You either keep it discreet or file for divorce. I have nothing else to say."
And, she discovers, she doesn't. She could use words, lots of them, but what good are words when you don't know what it is you want to use them for?
Keep it discreet.
In Alex Blake's mind, that means please don't mess up my status quo. That's really the only thing she wants to say, and after twenty-three years of marriage, James understands that.
While he sets the table downstairs, Alex locks the bathroom door and turns on the shower so he won't hear her cry.