“Yes.”
She said.
“Not like that.”
“But yes.”
“When did you sleep with him?”
Laura closed her eyes.
“Fourth night.”
There it was.
“How did it happen?”
“Nathan.”
“You wanted honesty.”
“I changed my mind.”
She looked confused.
I continued.
“I don’t want mechanics.”
“Just tell me what happened afterward.”
Laura nodded.
“We slept together again.”
“How many days?”
“Most.”
I turned away.
The driveway blurred.
Then she said:
“We started acting like we were together again.”
That sentence hurt worse than sex.
Sex could have been impulse.
Acting like a couple required imagination.
“What does that mean?”
“Breakfast.”
“Hikes.”
“Sleeping together.”
“Talking about our old life.”
“He held my hand.”
“I stopped wearing my ring.”
I looked at her.
“You took it off?”
Her face collapsed.
“Yes.”
I felt something inside me settle permanently.
Not break.
Settle.
“When did you put it back on?”
“The drive home.”
I nodded.
“Keep going.”
“On the last night.”
“I asked him what this meant.”
“And?”
“He said he wasn’t ready.”
“He said the divorce had destroyed him.”
“He couldn’t jump into another relationship.”
“He said maybe someday.”
“A year.”
“Something like that.”
I almost smiled.
Not because anything was funny.
Because the question in the kitchen had been exactly right.
“So if he had said yes?”
Laura wiped her face.
“I don’t know.”
I shook my head.
“You know.”
“Nathan.”
“You spent thirteen days deciding.”
“You already decided.”
“You chose him.”
“He did not choose you.”
“So you came home.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It is mathematically fair.”
She grabbed my arm.
“I love you.”
I removed her hand gently.
“No.”
“You love what I represent right now.”
“Home.”
“History.”
“Stability.”
“The dog.”
“Someone who knows where you keep your passport.”
“That isn’t love?”
“It can be.”
“But it is not enough.”
“You want me because the other option closed.”
She shook her head violently.
“I made a terrible mistake.”
“Yes.”
“And mistakes can be forgiven.”
“Some can.”
“This could.”
“Maybe.”
I said.
“But forgiveness and marriage are different things.”
That silenced her.
I continued.
“I might forgive you someday.”
“I honestly hope I do.”
“But I don’t know how I lie beside you every night wondering whether Michael sends one message six months from now and suddenly you need closure again.”
“He’s blocked.”
“That is not the problem.”
“I’ll show you my phone.”
“Not the problem.”
“I’ll quit talking to him forever.”
“Still not the problem.”
“Then what is?”
I looked directly at her.
“You wanted him more than you wanted us.”