Page 38 of One Week
But I’m not completely innocent either…
I’ve been so distracted and busy carrying on with some guy on the Internet, I didn’t even notice my husband was having an affair.
At least, I had the decency to end it. I can’t help but laugh at the irony of it. Here I was, feeling so guilty, so torn up about my relationship with Eli — just words, really. A few laughs, and lingering gazes… and words. That’s all. And all this time, John was sticking his dick in some other woman.
I grab a box of Kleenex from my desk, pull a tissue, and blow into it loudly. I’m a blubbering mess, but Elsie hasn’t left my side. My throat hurts and my eyes sting.
How would John react if I confronted him? Would he deny it, and tell me I’m crazy? Would he concoct some completely feasible excuse? He is a good storyteller, after all. Or would he own up to the truth? He owes me that. After all the years we’ve shared, it’s the least he owes me.
I make myself a cup a tea while I ponder our situation further. Why should this affair destroy our marriage? Four lives are at stake here. This isn’t just about me.
And maybe this thing is just a meaningless fling… just sex.
Perhaps it’s just my way to make sense of all this, to take the easy way out because it’s all too much for me to deal with. I’ve always had a hard time confronting problems head-on. I tend to skirt around them, tuck them in a little box and ignore them. It’s the reason I wasn’t on speaking terms with my mother when she died.
But there’s no ignoring this one. It’s too big.
I decide to confront John. If he denies the affair, it’s over. If he tells me the truth, I’ll give our marriage a second chance.
It’s that simple.
* * *
I’ve just been going through the motions these past few days. A million questions rattle around in my head. I haven’t been able to eat, to sleep. I think about Eli. I want to reach out to him, but I know that’s not the answer, that would just be adding more fuel to this hot mess.
Life has been wheeling along as usual; errands, school runs, kids’ activities, dinner on the table, bedtime tuck-ins. Every single night is spent in my loft, ‘working’. Crying, more like. John has been holed up in his office too, as he’s been these past few months. I wonder if he’s talking to her, if he’s chatting with her. I don’t want to know.
I’ve been avoiding the confrontation, but I know I can’t go on like this. I’ll die if I do. There is so much anger in me, I feel like I might explode. I thought I’d wait a day or two before I confronted him, to calm down. But I’m not calming down. My anger is as wild and alive as ever. I know I need to do this now.
He’s sitting on the old worn plaid loveseat, the one he just can’t get rid of — it’s an eyesore but he fears he won’t be able to write ever again if he gets rid of it — he’s superstitious that way. He’s tapping away on his laptop when I quietly slip into his office. The kids are already in bed, and it’s pretty late. He seems surprised to see me — I don’t ordinarily venture into his office this late at night. I’m typically fast asleep by this time. I inch closer, and I sneak a peek. He’s writing — no naughty chatting or pornography — he’s just working.
“Can you take a break?” I ask. “We need to talk.”
Chapter Sixteen
HE DOESN’T WRITE ANOTHER WORD. He sets his laptop on the rustic coffee table. It’s a mess as usual; scattered papers, pens, and an empty cup of coffee. “What’s up?” he asks. He knows that something’s not right. “Is it the kids?” he asks, concern etching his features.
I shake my head. “No, no, no. The kids are fine,” I tell him. “This is about us.”
He clears his throat and lies back on the loveseat. He doesn’t say a single word, almost as if he knows what’s coming.
“I…” I start, but the words are stuck in my throat. This is so much harder than I thought it would be. “I… I need to talk about something,” I start again. “About a week ago, I was looking for a pen…” My voice is shaking. “I was looking for a pen, and I couldn’t find one for the life of me. Anyway, I know you always have some in your satchel, and I don’t usually snoop in your stuff, I swear.”
His face falls. He knows where this is going.
“Anyway,” I go on. My voice has settled, and I’m really doing this. “Anyway, I saw a Valentine’s card and a Tiffany’s box. I assumed it was for me, but then…”
I don’t need to say more. It’s obvious where this conversation is going.
He’s speechless, and the expression on his face says it all. The last time I saw it was when he learned that his Nanna died of a heart attack at the age of eighty-six. He’s heart-broken.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I beg.
His gaze lingers on the wall in the distance, straight ahead. There is a collection of photos on the wall; him at various events, posing with famous authors and fans, and covers of his books sitting next to their NYT Bestseller listings. But I know he’s not seeing any of that.
“It just happened, Gabbie,” he says softly. “I’m so sorry.”
He still can’t look me in the eye.
