Chapter Twenty
CHAPTER TWENTY
It’s a miracle I don’t get a speeding ticket between Colorado Springs and Denver. My foot is like lead on the gas pedal, my mind flashing between all the ways I anticipated the night going and how it actually played out.
The worst part is, now that everything is said and done, I can’t decide who I’m angrier with—Lydia or myself.
What she did took guts, I’ll give her that. Finding me on the app, luring me in with messages, then pushing to hook up at a hotel. If I’d been at all suspicious, I might’ve figured it out. Shut the whole thing down, deleted the app, and laid low. But that profile picture she took? Fuck . That didn’t exactly help me think with my upstairs brain.
And if I’m totally honest, part of me is grateful she did it.
I can’t deny why I drove to Colorado Springs. I was ready for some action, and I’m pretty sure I would have gotten it if not for my wife. But now that it’s behind me, I’m so glad I didn’t. Because as awful as I feel barreling up the highway after being caught by my wife with my literal pants down, I’m not sure I could’ve driven home to face her at all after fucking another woman.
In some ways, it’s like she saved me from myself.
That, or she’s trying to kill me .
And holy fuck, no woman I met online could have compared with how Lydia looked tonight. It was all I could do to keep from ripping that bra off just to bury my face between her breasts. And once I knew it was her, that actually made it worse—I wasn’t a cheater having an affair anymore; I was a man with his own wife . I wanted nothing more than to bend her over the side of that bed, tear those backless panties down her legs, and fuck her guilt-free, nice and slow. In the ten years we’ve been together, she’s never worn anything like that lingerie, and I’ve tried to make it happen. Hell, I doubt we would’ve ended up here if she had.
Maybe that’s not fair.
But it doesn’t matter. Because even though she wore it, enticed me with it, she still pushed me away.
I grip the wheel, searching for the headlights of her Toyota in my rearview mirror. She would have had to dress and pack up, but even if we’d left together, at the rate I’m going she’d be several miles back. I’ll beat her home by a good fifteen minutes, and I’m still so mortified by everything that happened tonight, I’m tempted to just throw some stuff in a bag and leave before she gets there. I could spend a few nights with Henry. Find a place of my own, hire some movers to go back into the house for my stuff. Can you ghost on a marriage?
Possibly—except for one thing.
You’re talking about our sex life...maybe it’s something we could work on.
I guess I’m enough of an asshole to cheat on my wife, but not enough of one to deny her the chance to try.
I can’t decide if she’s sincere or just trying to punish me, though. Why couldn’t we have worked on it a year ago? Or three? The fact that she actually suggested out loud that we could have sex fills me with stupid hope, but I really wish it didn’t. Because she’ll never follow through. Once we’re home she might make a halfhearted effort. Wear a low-cut shirt, wave her cleavage in front of me, then invite me to get on top of her for ten minutes as per usual. Nothing’s going to make her magically start desiring me. Then she’ll get busy at work, go back to avoiding me, and turn me down the next time I’m desperate enough to make a move .
No fucking thank you. I should have walked away tonight when she was most upset. It would’ve been easier.
And God —I showed up ready to sleep with a stranger. Even if she did want me, I don’t fucking deserve her.
I step into the house and slam the front door. There’s no barking or full-body dog tackle. Lydia must’ve left Heartthrob with Tomás.
I pace from the living room to the kitchen. It’s a small relief we had to drive back separately—I needed the time with my own thoughts—but now I’m all keyed up, wondering what we’re supposed to do when she gets here. Where I should be, what she’s expecting. It’s only eleven o’clock at night. Are we supposed to sit and make small talk? Get into bed? Then what? It figures that after waiting years for her to meet me halfway under the sheets, I’m now dreading it. I don’t know how to touch her after what I did tonight. I can’t imagine she’d ever want to touch me again.
I decide to change clothes just as she pulls into the driveway. She takes her time coming in, and I’m just tying my shoes when she walks in the door.
“Going for a run?” Her eyebrows arch, taking in my joggers and reflective jacket.
“Yeah.” It feels like I should say more, justify my actions, but I’m afraid to. I’ve done enough damage tonight.
“Okay.” She seems to want to say something else too, but she just nods after a moment. “Well, I um...have to catch up on some things.”
My stomach sinks, quickly knotting around her words, despite a simultaneous sense of relief. Of course. She’s going to work. What else would she do? I almost laugh, but the corners of my eyes start to burn, so I keep my face an impassive mask. This is familiar. I know what to do when she works. I zip my jacket and head out the door without another word.
My calves burn like crazy. It was a longer run than I normally would’ve taken so late at night, but it was that or come home. After a while, everything that happened today started piling up in my chest—driving sixty miles for an affair, getting caught , then my marriage not quite falling apart—until I had to slow to a walk. I drag my feet to our front porch, so tired I can hardly stand, but I make myself take time to stretch, hoping Lydia’s gone to sleep. I don’t want to have to face her again. I just want to go to bed and pretend this whole day never fucking happened.
When I finally open the door, the house is dark. I step lightly, easing it closed so it won’t creak, leaving my shoes by the coat rack. She’s not at her desk in the second bedroom when I pass, but that doesn’t mean anything. She carries her laptop all over the place when she works, and our bed is less than sacred. As I get close to our bedroom door, I can hear music playing, which is odd. I’ll put on a playlist sometimes to relax or try to set a mood. She usually listens to podcasts or news reports, saying she prefers to stay informed. I can’t remember the last time she sat back and just played a song.
I head past our door and lock myself in the bathroom. When I turn on the shower, I adjust the spray to make the hot water last as long as possible. Then I just stand there, letting it run down my body, soothing my aching muscles, willing it to cleanse the sin from my skin.
When I’m finally brave enough to leave the confines of the bathroom, I find Lydia curled asleep in our bed. She’s not wearing the lingerie anymore, which is both a relief, and if I’m honest, a total disappointment. But she’s pulled on a sleeveless cotton nightgown that I have to admit I adore because it shows so much skin. She usually saves it for summer when it’s too hot for the striped anti-sex long sleeves. The lights are low, and the music drifting through the room is coming from the small Bluetooth speaker beside the bed. It takes me a few minutes to realize the songs she’s cued up are actually the playlist from our wedding. One of the knots in my chest loosens a little.
Her breathing is low and even, and I linger over her, staring at her yellow hair fanned over the pillow, her parted lips, the smooth planes of her face. She still looks exactly the way she did when we first met, if not somehow more beautiful. I pull the blankets up over her shoulders, my hand hovering by her cheek, heart caught in my chest. I wasn’t lying when I told her she’s all I’ve ever wanted— she is . I just don’t think she’ll ever feel the same way about me.
I turn out the light and walk around to my side, shedding my towel and slipping under the covers naked, but staying as close to the edge of the bed as I can. I unlock my phone and pull up my alarm app out of habit, my thumb poised over five a.m. when I like to go to the gym. But something stops me from setting it this time. For one, despite the shower, my legs already feel like they’re ready to fall off. If I work out tomorrow, it’s going to be arm work only.
But another part of me wants to stay in, see what happens in the morning. I’m not delusional; I don’t expect her to roll over tomorrow hot for morning sex. Honestly, it would make more sense if she changed her mind and threw all my clothes out the front window. But I keep thinking about the tremor in her voice when she said, I don’t want you to move out. And the corresponding lump that formed in my own throat. Would she really put in the work we need? Or are we both delaying the inevitable? I hate setting myself up for more disappointment, and it feels like that’s what I’m about to do. But I’m curious—and probably stupid—enough to wait and see.