I'm staring at my phone at 11:47 PM when my marriage implodes. Not dramatically. Not with a confession or lipstick on a collar or any of the clichéd ways marriages are supposed to end. It happens with a single Instagram notification. *@ElenaCruz tagged you in a post.* My thumb hovers over the screen. Marcus left three days ago for what he called a "guys' camping trip" up in the Cascades. Needed to decompress, he said. Work's been brutal, he said. Just him and the crew from college getting back to nature. Except Elena isn't a guy. I've made peace with that, though. Or I thought I had. Marcus has been friends with Elena since sophomore year—fifteen years of inside jokes and shared history that predates me by half a decade. She's always been "one of the guys," according to him. Cargo pants, craft beer, fantasy football. She can gut a fish and build a fire and drink most men under the table. "She's basically my sister," Marcus has told me a hundred times, laughing off my occasional discomfort. "You're being insecure, Liv." So I swallowed it. The weekly coffee meetups. The late-night texts about nothing important. The way she calls him "Mars" like she has proprietary rights to a nickname. I swallowed all of it because I trust my husband. Trusted. Past tense, apparently. I tap the notification. The photo loads slowly, my WiFi struggling. Then it fills my screen and something cold slides down my spine. It's Marcus. Shirtless. Bent over a creek, washing something. The angle is low, shot from behind, and his hiking shorts have ridden down enough that the top curve of his bare ass is completely visible. The waistband of his boxer briefs—the gray Calvin Kleins I bought him for Christmas—cuts across his lower back. The caption reads: *Nature's best view 🏔️😍 #WildernessVibes #CampingWithTheBoys #BlessedWithTheSight* There are already thirty-seven likes. My hands are shaking. I scroll through the comments. Most are from people I don't know—Elena's coworkers, probably. Lots of fire emojis. Lots of "damn girl" and "I see you" and one that makes my stomach turn: *Is this the husband? 👀* Elena's response: *LOL no, just my favorite camping buddy 😘* Just her favorite camping buddy. My husband of four years. Shirtless. Photographed without his knowledge—because there's no way Marcus knew she was taking this shot. He's focused on the water, completely unaware. I click on Elena's profile. She's posted six photos in the last two days. All from the trip. Photo two: Marcus and two other guys around a campfire. Normal. Fine. Photo three: A sunset over the mountains. Artistic. Whatever. Photo four: Marcus again, this time emerging from a tent in the early morning, hair messy, eyes half-closed, wearing only a pair of flannel pajama pants. The lighting is golden. Intimate. The caption: *Morning mood 🌅* Photo five: The whole group, Elena squeezed between Marcus and another guy I recognize as Joel from his college rugby team. Her hand is on Marcus's chest. His arm is around her shoulders. *Squad goals,* the caption says. Photo six, posted just twenty minutes ago: A close-up of Marcus sleeping in his tent, mouth slightly open, one arm thrown over his head. The photo is taken from inside the tent. From close range. The caption: *When bae is tired from the hike 😴💕 #LetHimRest* When bae is tired. Bae. My husband. I'm going to be sick. I screenshot everything. I don't know why—evidence? For what? For who?—but my fingers are moving on autopilot. Save, save, save. Then I open my messages with Marcus. The last text from him came yesterday afternoon: *No service up here. Having a great time. Love you.* I type: *Call me when you get this.* Then I delete it. Type: *Why is Elena posting pictures of you sleeping?* Delete. Type: *Are you fucking her?* My finger hovers over send. I delete it. Instead, I write: *Hope you're having fun! Miss you ❤️* I hate myself for the heart emoji, but I send it anyway. Because here's the thing: I don't know what this is yet. I don't know if I'm overreacting. If I'm being the jealous, insecure wife Marcus sometimes implies I am when I bring up Elena. Maybe this is normal. Maybe this is just how they are—comfortable, familiar, boundary-free because they've been friends for so long. Maybe I'm the problem. Except. Except I would never post a photo of another man's bare ass online. I would never photograph a male friend sleeping without his knowledge. I would never call anyone but Marcus "bae," even as a joke. And if I did, Marcus would lose his mind. I think about last month, when my coworker Derek gave me a ride home because my car was in the shop. Marcus saw Derek's name on my phone when he texted "you're welcome!" and spent two hours asking questions. Who is he? Why don't I know him? Why didn't I just take an Uber? But Elena can document my husband's body for public consumption and it's fine because she's "one of the guys." I'm still staring at the photos when my phone buzzes. A text from my sister, Jess: *Um... did you see Elena's Instagram?* So it's not just me. I call her. She answers on the first ring. "Liv, what the hell?" "I don't know." My voice sounds strange. Distant. "That's not okay. You know that's not okay, right?" "I don't know what it is." "It's disrespectful as hell, that's what it is. She's literally thirsting over your husband on social media." "They're just friends." "Friends don't post ass shots, Liv." I close my eyes. "Maybe I'm overreacting." "You're underreacting!" Jess's voice rises. "Where are the other guys in these photos? Why is it all Marcus?" I scroll back through. She's right. Six photos. Marcus features prominently in five. The other guys are background noise. "I need to talk to him," I say. "Good. And you need to tell him this stops. Elena needs boundaries." After we hang up, I look at the photos again. And again. And again, until the images burn into my retinas. At 1:30 AM, I finally fall asleep on the couch, phone clutched in my hand, wondering when "one of the guys" became "bae."