My Husband Brought His Mistress Home for the Weekend

by

Chapter 8

THEME:
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"Natalie," I said.

He gave a small nod.

"Natalie. Take care of yourself."

I swallowed.

"I'm trying."

I got into the car.

As we pulled away, I looked up at the twenty-third floor.

Unit 2304 was too high to see clearly.

Just glass reflecting the sky.

I wondered whether Adrian was standing at the window.

I wondered whether Lauren had opened the wine.

I wondered whether either of them understood that they had not pushed me out of my home that evening.

They had simply arrived in time to see me choose not to live there anymore.

My phone began ringing before we reached the first traffic light.

Adrian.

I watched his name fill the screen.

Then disappear.

A few seconds later, it rang again.

I turned the phone facedown on the seat.

For the first time in months, I did not need to know what Adrian had to say.

PART 1 — My Husband Brought His Mistress Home for the Weekend
My new apartment smelled like fresh paint, cardboard, and the lemon cleaner the management company used between tenants.

There was no harbor view.

No glass wall.

No polished lobby.

No doorman downstairs who knew which dry-cleaning bag belonged to which resident.

When I opened the door, I saw two unopened boxes Emily had brought over, the mattress she had helped me order, the floor lamp I had bought three days earlier, and a kettle sitting alone on the kitchen counter.

It was the most peaceful room I had entered in a year.

Emily was waiting inside.

She had ordered pizza and brought a bottle of sparkling water because she knew I rarely drank when I was upset.

One look at my face and she stopped asking whether I was sure.

"Oh, Nat."

I put my handbag on the floor.

"He brought her."

"I know."

"He actually brought her."

Emily crossed the room and wrapped her arms around me.

That was when I cried properly.

I cried into my sister's shoulder for the marriage I thought I had.

For the man Adrian used to be.

For the woman I had become while trying to keep him.

I cried because six years did not vanish simply because leaving was right.

There is a cruel idea that sometimes follows women after betrayal.

That once you choose yourself, everything should feel triumphant.

It doesn't.

Sometimes choosing yourself feels like carrying boxes up four flights because the service elevator is broken.

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