I was watching Aaron during his quiet time, noticing the subtle shifts in his expression as he flipped through his leather‑bound ESV Study Bible—his prized possession from a scripture recall contest at age 20. Its silver‑edged pages were smudged from use, and I couldn’t help envying its reverence.
He placed it down softly and told me, with that gentle smile of his, “Please don’t touch my Bible. It’s filled with my personal notes—it’s private, sacred.” His tone made me feel grateful to be with someone so devout, though something about the word “sacred” unsettled me.
Later, he said he’d be camping with his male cousins for a weekend of Bible study and worship in nature. I thought it was beautiful and pure, and he seemed eager—almost otherworldly.
But on Saturday, while searching in our basement for a toolbox, I found his duffel and camping gear there—not loaded in his car—with his Bible resting on top. Opening it, I discovered a hidden envelope slipped inside. The handwriting was unfamiliar, the notes intimate—a love letter full of longing, signed with a lipstick kiss, and mentioning meetings at “the cabin.” A motel receipt tucked inside sealed it.
When I called the motel, the clerk confirmed a recent stay with a woman named Claire—my Claire, my best friend and maid of honor, unknowingly planning my wedding. Everything clicked: her drop‑ins, their synchronized trips.
My world shattered. I confronted Claire; she hung up. Chaos roiled inside me. I packed a bag, ready to leave, but Aaron burst in, pleading, trying to explain. Holding up the letters, I told him there was no explanation left. I warned him I’d contact Claire’s husband. He collapsed, utterly defeated.
Without hesitation, I walked away into the night.