One Friday she called.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“Do you miss me?”
I almost lied.
Then remembered what dishonesty had cost us.
“Yes.”
She cried quietly.
“I miss you.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m coming home.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
We had dinner a week later.
Neutral restaurant.
No house.
No therapist.
Just two people.
She wore jeans and a sweater.
Nothing glamorous.
I thought she looked beautiful.
That irritated me.
We talked for two hours.
Not about the affair.
Books.
Work.
Her sister.
A ridiculous neighbor.
When we left, she stood beside her car.
“Can I hug you?”
The question hit me harder than expected.
She used to hug me without thought.
Now she asked.
I nodded.
She stepped close.
I held her.
My body remembered her before my mind did.
Scent.
Height.
The exact place her head fit beneath my chin.
I closed my eyes.
For a moment I wanted to take her home.
Then the hotel receipt appeared in my mind.
I stepped back.
She saw it happen.
She did not ask why.
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
That was progress.
Painful progress.
Eight months after discovery, the trainer and his wife divorced.
I learned through my wife.
She looked upset when she told me.
“For them?”
“For their daughter.”
I nodded.
“Do you feel responsible?”
“Yes.”
“You are responsible for part of it.”
She flinched.
Then nodded.
I continued.
“But their marriage had two people.”
She looked at me.
“And his affair had him.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t take his choices because guilt feels noble.”
She stared.
“You sound like the therapist.”
“I pay enough.”
She almost laughed.
We were getting better at having difficult conversations without making them catastrophic.
That did not automatically mean we should stay married.
But it meant something.
At ten months, I returned home.
Not permanently.
Two nights.
Then three.
We slept in separate rooms at first.
The fourth week, she stood in my doorway.
“Can I sleep here?”
I stared.
“Sleep?”
She smiled sadly.
“Just sleep.”
I moved over.
She climbed beside me.
There was a careful distance between us.
At two in the morning I woke and found her hand resting near mine.
Not touching.
I moved my fingers.
Barely.
She woke.
Neither spoke.
I took her hand.
That was all.
Six years earlier I had put a ring on that hand in front of everybody we loved.
This felt more intimate.
Because now nothing was assumed.
A year after discovery, we returned to the Riverton Grand.
My idea.
The therapist initially questioned it.
“Why?”
“Because I’m tired of a building owning space in my head.”
My wife looked terrified.