She continued.
"With you, when I said I wasn't sure I could go through another pregnancy, you were hurt."
"Very."
"You were angry."
"I was."
"But eventually you said it was my body and we would decide together."
I remembered.
Not proudly.
It had taken me months to say it without resentment.
Amy squeezed my hand.
"That's why I stayed."
The wording made me uncomfortable.
She saw it.
"That's not what I mean."
"Then say what you mean."
"I chose us."
That was different.
"I kept choosing us because even when things were hard, I still recognized myself here."
Her eyes moved around the restaurant.
"That's the thing I couldn't explain when I was twenty-four."
She looked back at me.
"Love isn't just wanting someone."
I waited.
"It's being able to remain yourself while wanting them."
That sentence stayed between us.
"And Peter helped you realize this?"
"He helped me realize something else."
"What?"
"That I needed to tell you."
"Why?"
"Because during coffee he asked whether you knew about him."
I felt my stomach tighten again.
"What did you say?"
"I said no."
"And?"
"He looked shocked."
"Good."
Amy almost smiled.
"He asked why."
"What did you tell him?"
"That I didn't know how."
"What did he say?"
She hesitated.
"Amy."
"He said, 'Then maybe you still haven't forgiven yourself.'"
I hated Peter a little less for that.
Only a little.
"Was he right?"
"Yes."
She looked down.
"After I left the coffee shop, I sat in my car for forty minutes."
"Did you cry?"
"A lot."
"Did you call him after?"
"No."
"Message him?"
"One message."
My chest tightened.
"What?"
"I thanked him for talking and told him I didn't think we should stay in contact."
Relief arrived so strongly that I was embarrassed by it.
"What did he say?"
"'I understand. Take care of yourself.'"
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"Have you spoken since?"
"No."
I believed her.
I realized that almost immediately.
That didn't erase the secrecy.
But I believed her.
"So why wait two weeks to tell me?"
Amy laughed sadly.
"Because I'm a coward."
"No."
"I almost told you that night."
"Why didn't you?"
"You were making pasta."
I stared.
"What?"
"You were making pasta."
"That's your reason?"
She smiled through tears.
"You were standing at the stove complaining because the sauce wasn't thick enough."
"It wasn't."
"And I thought, 'I'm going to tell him.'"
"But?"
"You turned around and kissed me."
I remembered nothing about that particular kiss.
Amy remembered everything.
"And suddenly I thought if I told you, the kitchen would become the place where our marriage changed forever."
"So you didn't."
"No."
"Then when?"
"The next night."
"What stopped you?"
"You had a headache."
I stared at her.
"The next?"
"Rachel called."