Outside, our neighbor’s porch light was on.
A car passed.
Someone somewhere was laughing.
I could hear it faintly through the glass.
“You knew he had a wife.”
“Yes.”
“You knew he had a child.”
“Yes.”
“And tonight you were going to go spend the night with him.”
Her voice cracked.
“Yes.”
I turned.
“What did you think happened tomorrow?”
She looked confused.
“What?”
“You said we’d talk tomorrow.”
“I meant about us.”
“Exactly.”
I crossed my arms.
“What was the plan?”
She stared.
“You come home at nine?”
“Ten?”
“You shower?”
“Put your suitcase away?”
“Then sit across from me and discuss our marriage after spending the night with somebody else?”
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“I didn’t know how else to do it.”
“You could have not gone.”
“I know.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“Stop saying that.”
Her eyes lifted.
“You keep saying I know.”
I stepped closer.
“But everything you planned tonight says you didn’t care enough about what you knew.”
That hurt her.
I saw it.
I did not take it back.
She looked at the hotel receipt.
“I was going to end our marriage.”
The room became silent.
I felt surprisingly calm.
Maybe shock had finally overloaded everything else.
“You were.”
She nodded.
“Tonight?”
“Tomorrow.”
I laughed softly.
“After the hotel.”
She closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
I sat again.
“Why?”
She looked up.
“What?”
“Why not before?”
“I was afraid.”
“Of me?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Of making the wrong choice.”
I stared.
“So you wanted one last night with him before choosing.”
She did not answer.
That was answer enough.
I looked at my wedding ring.
It suddenly felt heavy.
“I was the backup.”
“No.”
I looked up.
“Don’t.”
“You weren’t.”
“I was literally waiting in the house while you packed a suitcase to test-drive your other life.”
“That’s not how I saw it.”
“It doesn’t matter how you decorated it in your head.”
She sobbed once.
I looked away.
There had been a time when her crying would have ended any argument.
I could not stand seeing her hurt.
I used to cross rooms to comfort her before I even knew what was wrong.
Now she cried three feet away and I felt like I was watching rain through glass.
I hated that too.
“I’m not going tonight.”
I looked at her.
She took off one heel.
Then the other.
“I’m staying.”
I almost laughed.
“You think staying now fixes something?”
“No.”
She looked toward the suitcase.
“But I can’t walk out after this.”
“You could ten minutes ago.”
“I know.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was again.
I know.
She stood.
“I’ll unpack.”
“No.”
She stopped.
I looked at her suitcase.
“Leave it.”