I made my way upstairs and walked into the bedroom. And there, in my closet, was Max. Celia’s letters, which I had kept in such pristine condition, were flung about the room, most of them torn from the envelopes as if they were nothing more than junk mail. “What are you doing?” I said. He was in a black T-shirt and sweatpants. “What am J doing?” he said. “That is too much. You coming in here asking me what J am doing.” “Those are mine.” “Oh, I see that, ma belle.” I leaned down and tried to take them from him. He pulled them away. “You are having an affair?” he said, smiling. “How very French of ” you. “Max, stop it.” “I do not mind some infidelity, my dear. If it is respectfully done. And one does not leave evidence.” The way he said it, I realized he had slept with people outside our marriage, and I wondered if any woman was ever really safe from men like Max and Don. I thought of how many women out there thought they could prevent their husbands from cheating if only they were as gorgeous as Evelyn Hugo. But it never stopped any man I loved. “IT am not cheating on you, Max. So would you cut it out?” “Maybe you are not,” he said. “I suppose I can believe that. But what I can’t believe is that you are a dyke.” I closed my eyes, my anger burning so hot inside me that I needed to check out of the world, to momentarily gather myself in my own body. “IT am not a dyke,” I said. “These letters beg to differ.” “Those letters are none of your business.” “Maybe,” Max said. “If these letters are just Celia St. James talking to you about her feelings for you in the past, then I am in the wrong here. And I will put them away right now, and I will apologize to you immediately.”