“That isn’t what I mean.”
“I know.”
I closed the book.
“What do you want from seeing him?”
“Nothing.”
“Coffee.”
“Catch up.”
“Make sure he’s okay.”
“He has friends.”
“Nathan.”
“I’m not accusing you.”
“It sounds like you are.”
I breathed out slowly.
“No.”
“I’m asking because you haven’t seen this man in more than a decade.”
“Now he’s divorcing.”
“He suddenly reaches out.”
“And within a week he wants to meet.”
Laura sat up.
“You trust me, right?”
That question changed the argument.
It always does.
If I said no, the problem became my trust.
If I said yes, then objecting became irrational.
“I trust you.”
I said.
“Then why is coffee a problem?”
I had no answer that did not make me sound insecure even to myself.
So Saturday morning, Laura met Michael for coffee.
She was gone two and a half hours.
I remember because I walked Murphy twice.
When she came home, she seemed energized.
Not guilty.
Not secretive.
Energized.
“How was it?”
I asked.
“Actually really good.”
“He looks the same.”
“Older obviously.”
“So do we.”
She smiled.
“We talked about college.”
“His dad.”
“The divorce.”
“Our old apartment.”
“It was weird.”
“But good weird.”
I nodded.
Then she kissed my cheek and went upstairs to change.
That should have been the end of it.
It was not.
Coffee turned into texting.
At first, openly.
Her phone would buzz.
She would smile.
“Michael sent me a picture of this horrible diner we used to go to.”
Or:
“Michael remembered that professor I hated.”
Or:
“He found an old picture of our college group.”
I listened.
Sometimes I laughed.
I genuinely tried to be mature about it.
Then the phone began following her more closely.
Bathroom.
Kitchen.
Backyard.
She had always left it lying around before.
Now it remained face down beside her.
I noticed.
Did not mention it.
Then I noticed something worse.
Laura smiled at Michael’s messages differently.
That sounds pathetic when written out.
I know.
But if you have been with somebody eleven years, you know their smiles.
There is the polite smile.
The work smile.
The dog-did-something-stupid smile.
The I-am-being-nice-to-your-mother smile.
The genuinely amused smile.
And there is the smile people wear when someone makes them feel newly interesting.
Laura had that one again.
I had not seen it directed at me in a long time.
That hurt.
The first time I asked whether I should be worried, she laughed.
Actually laughed.
“Nathan.”
“Come on.”
“I’m serious.”
“He’s going through a divorce.”
“He needs someone to talk to.”
“He has other people to talk to.”
“Not people who knew him then.”
“Then.”
I repeated.
“Yes.”
“Before everything went wrong.”
There was something in that sentence.
Before everything went wrong.
I wondered if she meant his marriage.
Or adulthood.
Or us.
Three weeks after Michael first messaged her, Laura met him again.
Dinner this time.
She told me beforehand.
I said I was uncomfortable.