“Why it ended.”
“Things we never said.”
“How we’ve changed.”
“What we thought our lives would look like.”
“And?”
“And I understand now that there was a reason we didn’t work.”
My stomach tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“It means the version of him I remembered isn’t the person he is now.”
“And I’m not who I was then.”
She reached toward me.
“I realized what I have here.”
“With you.”
“With us.”
The word us sounded offensive.
“You needed fourteen days with him to discover you were married to me?”
“That’s not fair.”
“I’m asking.”
“I needed to separate nostalgia from reality.”
“Okay.”
“And now?”
“Now I know I want this marriage.”
I should have felt relief.
Instead, something felt wrong.
Maybe because her conclusion sounded like a consumer review.
She had tested the alternative.
Our marriage scored higher.
Congratulations.
I stared at my plate.
“Did you sleep with him?”
Laura stopped breathing for a second.
Then said:
“Is that really what matters?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think physical details are going to help us.”
“That is not an answer.”
“Nathan.”
“Yes or no?”
“I don’t want you torturing yourself with images.”
“You don’t get to make that decision for me.”
She looked away.
That was the answer.
“How many times?”
“I’m not discussing that.”
“So yes.”
Laura’s eyes filled.
“I told you I made mistakes.”
“No.”
“You told me you had conversations.”
“I did.”
“And you slept with him.”
She lowered her voice.
“Yes.”
One word.
The room changed.
I had known.
Of course I had known.
But knowing without confirmation leaves a small dishonest room for hope.
That room collapsed.
“When?”
She shook her head.
“Nathan.”
“When?”
“I said I don’t want to give details.”
“First night?”
“No.”
“Second?”
“Stop.”
“Third?”
“Nathan.”
I laughed quietly.
“Okay.”
Laura reached for my hand.
I moved it away and picked up my water.
She stared at the table.
“I know this sounds terrible.”
“It is terrible.”
“But I came back.”
There was something about that sentence.
But I came back.
As though returning itself were proof of devotion.
We ate in silence.
Eventually I stood.
Started clearing dishes.
Laura helped automatically.
She rinsed.
I dried.
It felt insane.
Our marriage had just been admitted dead on arrival, and we were discussing dishwasher loading through body language.
Laura bent to place a plate on the lower rack.
That was when the question arrived fully formed.
Calm.
Simple.
Obvious.
“If Michael wasn’t going through a divorce.”
I said.
Laura stopped.
I continued.
“If he had told you he was completely free.”
“If he had said he wanted you back.”
“Would you have come home?”
She froze.
Half bent over.
One hand on the dishwasher.
The other holding a glass.
Five seconds.
Maybe ten.