Chapter 2: Texting to establish another catchup
The card felt heavier than it should have. Jacinta kept touching her wallet, tucked deep in her work bag, a phantom heat radiating from where Daniel Archer’s private number lay hidden beneath grocery receipts and loyalty cards. Back home, the familiar scent of stale coffee grounds and faint lemon cleaner greeted her. Mark was already at the kitchen table, scrolling his phone, a half-eaten sandwich abandoned beside him. The silence was thick, comfortable only in its predictability.
"Long day?" he asked without looking up, his voice muffled by a bite.
"The usual," Jacinta replied, dumping her bag on a chair. Spreadsheets. Endless emails. The gnawing emptiness. "Yours?"
"Busy. Traffic was hell." He finally glanced at her, his gaze sliding over her sensible blouse and skirt like he was checking inventory. "Leftovers in the fridge."
She nodded, the thought of reheated pasta turning her stomach. The Velvet Bean felt like another planet. Daniel’s intense gaze, the way his crisp cologne had cut through the coffee haze… She busied herself filling the kettle, the metallic clang loud in the quiet kitchen. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A jolt shot through her. Him? Ridiculous. It was just a notification about her dentist appointment.
Later, curled on the sofa pretending to watch a documentary Mark had chosen, the card burned a hole in her thoughts. Banked. Waiting for the right spark. His words echoed. What was the harm? A text. A friendly hello. Old colleagues catching up. Nothing more. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pulled out her phone, navigated past photos of the neighbour’s cat Mark had insisted on showing her, and opened a new message. She stared at the blank screen, the cursor blinking accusingly. What to say? Hi Daniel, Jacinta here. Was nice bumping into you. Too formal. Hey Danny, remember that awful printer? Too familiar. She deleted both.
Finally, she typed: Jacinta Reed. Good seeing you today. Simple. Neutral. She hit send before she could overthink it. The silence stretched. One minute. Two. Had she misread everything? Was the card just politeness? Shame prickled her cheeks. She shoved the phone under a cushion.
It buzzed almost instantly. She fumbled for it.
Jacinta! Was genuinely great to see you too. Glad you texted. How’s the dishwasher streak situation? Still winning?
A surprised laugh escaped her. He remembered. Relief flooded her, warm and dangerous. Still battling the good fight, she typed back, a smile tugging at her lips. Though I suspect it’s a conspiracy.
Never underestimate appliance rebellion, he replied seconds later. They sense weakness.
The exchange flowed easily after that. Short bursts. Light. Reminiscing about office disasters, mutual acquaintances who’d vanished. Safe territory. Mostly. His texts were quick, witty, punctuated with emojis that felt surprisingly natural. Hers became less guarded. Sitting beside Mark, who was engrossed in a car auction on TV, she felt a thrilling disconnect. Here she was, laughing silently at her phone screen, sharing jokes with another man while her husband sat inches away, oblivious. It felt illicit. Exhilarating.
The next morning, Saturday, Mark announced he was heading to the hardware store. "Need anything?" he asked, already pulling on his jacket.
"Just… peace," Jacinta murmured, staring out at the unexpectedly bright sunshine. An idea sparked, reckless and bright. "Actually, I might go for a walk. Down by the beach. Clear my head."
"Suit yourself." He was out the door before she finished.
Alone, she moved with purpose. Not her usual leggings and oversized t-shirt. She dug to the back of her drawer, finding a turquoise bikini she hadn’t worn in years. It felt flimsy, daring. She slipped it on, examining herself critically in the full-length mirror. Lines etched around her eyes, a softness at her waist that hadn’t been there at thirty, but… her shoulders were still strong, her legs long. Not bad. Not bad at all. She threw on a sheer kaftan and grabbed a towel.
The beach was sparsely populated. The wind whipped her kaftan around her legs as she spread her towel near the water’s edge. The sun warmed her skin. She took a deep breath of salty air, feeling a flicker of the old vibrancy. She pulled out her phone, angled it carefully – capturing the curve of her shoulder, the line of her neck, the expanse of sunlit sea behind her. Just a sliver of turquoise fabric visible at the edge of the frame. Escaped the dishwasher warzone. Beach therapy. She sent it before she could second-guess.
The reply came fast. Looks like winning therapy. Sunshine suits you, Jacinta.
Her heart skipped. Not just a compliment. An acknowledgment. He saw her. Not the harried housewife, but the woman on the beach. She spent an hour basking, the text notification chime a tiny electric shock each time it sounded. They talked about books, music, the absurdity of modern life. Easy. Effortless. Unlike the strained silences at home.
Monday evening, after work, she drove straight to the gym instead of home. Another excuse blooming. "Stopping for a quick workout," she texted Mark. "Back later." He’d probably just grunt acknowledgment.
The gym was humid, echoing with grunts and clanging weights. She pushed herself harder than usual on the treadmill, sweat stinging her eyes. In the mirrored wall of the weights area, she caught her reflection. Hair escaping its ponytail, face flushed, muscles straining under her fitted tank top. Alive. Powerful. She positioned herself subtly, phone held low, capturing the intensity in her eyes, the sheen of sweat on her collarbones, the defined line of her arm. Post-workout clarity. Or maybe just oxygen deprivation. Send.
Daniel’s response was immediate. Looking strong. Determination looks good on you. Always did.
The words landed deep. Validation. Desire. Carefully veiled, but undeniably present. Each exchanged photo, each witty text, was a tiny step across a line she hadn’t consciously decided to cross. The plausible deniability was her shield. Just friends. Just sharing snippets of life. But the heat in her belly, the way her breath hitched waiting for his replies, told a different story.
The texts became a daily rhythm. Morning coffee updates. Lunchtime observations. Evening decompressions. Mark remained a distant planet in her orbit. "How was your day?" she’d ask over dinner.
"Fine. Yours?"
"Fine." And that was that. The chasm between ‘fine’ and the electric buzz of Daniel’s messages grew wider, deeper.
Thursday evening, sprawled on the sofa while Mark channel-surfed, her phone lit up with a new message.
Melbourne next week, Daniel wrote. Client meetings Wed-Fri. Any chance you’re heading into the city? Could grab that drink we talked about? Strictly professional catch-up, of course.
Her thumb hovered over the screen. Professional. The word felt flimsy now, a transparent curtain. She pictured the dim interior of a city bar, the low hum of conversation, Daniel’s focused gaze across a small table. The spark he’d spoken of, waiting to be fanned. The risk was immense. The pull was stronger.
She glanced at Mark, his face illuminated by the flickering TV screen, utterly absorbed in a football replay. He wouldn’t notice. He wouldn’t ask. The monotony pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating. The beach wind, the gym burn, Daniel’s words… they were flares in the grey.
Actually, I have a supplier meeting Thursday afternoon, she typed, the lie forming smoothly, fueled by a desperate need for something more. Could probably swing an early evening drink afterwards?
His reply was instantaneous. Perfect. Name the place. I’ll clear my evening.
Jacinta slipped her phone back into her pocket, the screen darkening. She stared at the TV without seeing it, the roar of the crowd a meaningless buzz in her ears. The ember Daniel had called ‘banked’ was glowing now, hot and insistent. Thursday. A hotel bar in Melbourne. A professional meeting. She repeated the words silently, trying to make them sound true. The lie tasted sharp on her tongue, metallic and unfamiliar. She’d need to practice saying it out loud.