"Before or after?"
She said nothing.
I nodded.
"Okay."
I started walking.
Lauren came after me.
"Adam."
I kept going.
"Stop."
I didn't.
She grabbed my forearm.
I pulled it away.
"Do not touch me right now."
Her eyes filled with tears.
That would have broken me six months earlier.
Maybe even six hours earlier.
Now it only confused me.
"What are you doing?"
She asked.
"Thinking."
"You're shutting down."
"Yes."
"Don't do that."
I stopped.
Turned.
"You spent yesterday lying to a stranger about our marriage so he'd feel comfortable kissing you."
Her mouth opened.
"You lied to me about where you were."
"You gave him your phone number."
"You arranged to meet him again after telling me you had a headache."
"And today I found his hands on you."
I paused.
"What exactly do you want me to do?"
She swallowed.
"I want you to let me explain."
"You've had explanations for six months."
"What does that mean?"
I almost smiled.
"You really want to ask that?"
We had been struggling since February.
At least that was when I first admitted it.
Lauren became harder to reach.
Physically present, emotionally elsewhere.
She spent more time on her phone.
She changed passwords.
Started carrying it into the bathroom.
Stopped leaving it charging beside the bed.
If I asked whether something was wrong, she said work.
If I asked whether I had done something, she said no.
If I suggested counseling, she said we weren't "that broken."
Then, two weeks later, she told a stranger our marriage was practically finished.
I walked toward the boardwalk.
She followed.
Behind us, Cole stayed near the chairs.
He looked like a man who had suddenly realized his vacation flirtation came with a marriage attached.
The resort elevator ride felt impossibly long.
Lauren stood beside me.
I watched the floor numbers.
Three.
Four.
Five.
She said, "Nothing happened beyond kissing."
I didn't respond.
"It didn't go farther than that."
Six.
"I swear."
Seven.
"Adam."
The doors opened.
I walked out.
Our room was near the end of the hall.
Ocean view.
King bed.
Balcony.
Champagne the resort left the first night because Lauren had told them we were celebrating our anniversary even though our anniversary wasn't for another month.
I opened the door.
The room smelled faintly like her perfume.
She entered behind me.
I put my phone and key card on the desk.
Then I sat in the chair beside the window.
Lauren remained standing.
For several seconds neither of us spoke.
Then she said:
"I made a mistake."
I looked at her.
"One?"
She flinched.
"Okay. Several."
I waited.
She started crying.
"I don't know what's wrong with me."
There are sentences people use because they sound vulnerable without actually answering anything.
That was one of them.
I said:
"Start with yesterday."
She wiped her face.
"I went to the pool after your call started."
"I know."
"I was reading."
"Okay."
"Cole sat nearby."
"Okay."
"He asked about my book."
"Okay."
She exhaled sharply.
"Can you stop saying okay like that?"
"Keep going."
"We talked."
"Two hours."
"I wasn't timing it."
"He was."
"Adam."
"Keep going."
She sat on the edge of the bed.
"He was easy to talk to."