One deeper, slow and open-mouthed. One softer, almost delicate, with a little catch on the exhale.
The human mind is strange in the seconds before it accepts a fact that will change everything. Mine became very quiet. Not peaceful. Not calm. Quiet the way a room goes quiet after glass breaks.
I stepped forward.
The living room opened to my left. The TV showed some nature documentary, a glacier calving silently because the volume was low and the captions were on. Blue light rolled across the couch, the coffee table, the woven rug I had saved for three months to buy, the framed wedding photo on the shelf where Caleb and I smiled under an arch of white roses in Cincinnati five years earlier.
And there they were.
Caleb Hartwell, my husband, slept on our couch with his head tipped back and his mouth slightly open. His dark hair was messy in the way I used to love because it made him look younger, less guarded. His right arm was curved across his chest like a cradle. Curled into that arm, cheek pressed to his shoulder, was Tessa Riley from next door.
Our neighbor.
My friend, or what passed for one.