I stood there.
My own bedroom suddenly looked staged.
Custom bed frame.
Gray curtains Elena picked.
Photograph from our honeymoon on the dresser.
A laundry basket in the corner.
Normal objects surrounding something that should not have existed.
Elena said:
“Marcus.”
I set the taco bags on the dresser.
That remains the strangest thing I did.
I think some primitive part of my brain still believed food belonged somewhere safe.
“How long?”
Elena started crying instantly.
“Marcus, please.”
“How long?”
“It isn’t what you think.”
That sentence should be illegal.
Julian finally looked at me.
“Man.”
I stared.
He lowered his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“How long?”
This time my voice was louder.
Elena covered her mouth.
Then whispered:
“Six months.”
Six months.
Twenty-six weeks.
Approximately half a year.
That number rearranged memory.
My birthday dinner.
The cabin weekend.
My father’s retirement cookout.
Julian sitting beside me on the porch in July drinking one of my beers and complaining about an employee.
Elena bringing us another round.
Six months meant dozens of opportunities to stop.
Dozens of mornings.
Messages.
Excuses.
Choices.
It was not a mistake.
Mistakes happen once.
Six months is a system.
I looked at Julian.
He still would not meet my eyes.
I asked:
“In my house?”
Elena sobbed.
Julian whispered:
“Sometimes.”
Something inside me went cold.
I did not hit him.
I did not scream.
Part of me wishes I had a dramatic story about throwing him through a wall.
I did not.
I turned around.
Walked downstairs.
Grabbed my keys.
Got into my car.
And drove.
Rain covered the windshield.
I drove until I reached a nearly empty strip-mall parking lot.
Then parked behind a closed mattress store.
I sat there for four hours.
The taco receipt stayed in my coat pocket.
I remember the windshield wipers.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
For most of those hours, I felt nothing.
Then I would suddenly remember some random detail.
Julian helping me move furniture.
Elena sleeping beside me.
My mother calling Elena her second daughter.
Then my chest would tighten so hard I thought I might vomit.
My phone filled with messages.
ELENA:
Please come home.
Please let me explain.
I love you.
It was a terrible mistake.
JULIAN:
I’m sorry.
There’s no excuse.
I never meant for this to happen.
That final sentence made me laugh aloud in the empty car.
Never meant for this to happen.
Six months.
Apparently he had slipped and accidentally maintained an affair for half a year.
I drove to a hotel.
The following morning, I called an attorney.
Brenda Shaw.
She came recommended by one of the partners at my firm.
Brenda was fifty-eight, short, terrifying, and seemed disappointed whenever opposing counsel behaved reasonably because it removed something she could attack.
She listened while I explained.
“No kids?”
“No.”
“Prenup?”
“No.”
“House jointly owned?”
“Yes.”
“Retirement?”
“Mostly separate contributions, marital growth.”
“Other debt?”