My Husband Brought His Mistress Home for the Weekend

PART 1 — My Husband Brought His Mistress Home for the Weekend
The marina looked exactly the same.

That offended me more than it should have.

The same white boats rocked in their slips.

The same gulls circled above the promenade.

The same café had tables outside despite the cool spring wind.

I parked beneath the building and sat with both hands on the steering wheel.

Seven months had passed since Martin loaded my suitcases into a car.

I could still feel the tremor in my knees.

Inside the lobby, Martin looked up.

For one second, his professional expression disappeared.

"Natalie."

"Hi, Martin."

He smiled.

"You look well."

"I am."

And because I knew he would understand the significance, I added, "Really."

His smile warmed.

"I'm glad."

The elevator ride to the twenty-third floor felt shorter than I remembered.

When the doors opened, no suitcases were waiting.

Adrian had left the door to Unit 2304 propped open.

Cardboard boxes filled the hall.

I knocked anyway.

He appeared from the bedroom wearing jeans and an old college sweatshirt.

"Hey."

"Hey."

We had learned the awkward language of almost-divorced people.

Familiar but careful.

He stepped aside.

The condo was half empty.

The dining table was gone.

The rugs had been rolled up.

Books had disappeared from the shelves.

Without our things, the rooms looked larger.

And less important.

The view was still spectacular.

The harbor filled the windows with silver light.

Once, I thought leaving that view would feel like failure.

Now it looked like scenery.

Beautiful scenery.

Nothing more.

"Your boxes are in the storage room," Adrian said.

"I'll get them."

"I can help."

"Okay."

We worked quietly.

One box held holiday decorations.

Another contained notebooks from graduate school.

A third was mostly kitchen things I had forgotten existed.

Then I found the ceramic sailboat.

It was wrapped in an old dish towel.

I laughed when I opened it.

Adrian looked over.

"Oh."

The little boat was still ugly.

White ceramic hull.

Crooked blue sail.

A tiny painted red flag.

"You kept it," I said.

"So did you."

"I left it."

"That's not the same as throwing it away."

I turned it over in my hands.

There was a chip near the base from the time Adrian knocked it off the shelf while dancing badly to a Motown song.

For a moment, the room around me filled with memory.

Adrian spinning me through the living room.