“Who is it?” His voice cracked. His gaze dropped to the bakery boxes, snapped back to my face, and the color went out of him. “Sarah — what are you doing here?”

It wasn’t the voice of a husband pleasantly surprised to see his wife. It had the defensive edge of an interrogation. He looked at me like I was the intruder.

I stayed on the welcome mat, taking in his rumpled shirt, a cold knot pulling tight in my stomach. “I came to drop off pastries for Khloe,” I said, my voice even.

“And you? What brings you here at this hour?”

He ran a hand through his hair and stole a glance back into the dim apartment. “Oh,” he stammered. “Her — her garbage disposal was backing up. She called me to unclog it.

Minor thing.”