Chapter 9
“Jesus, Claire.”
I could hear him walking through our kitchen.
Cabinet door.
Glass against countertop.
The sounds of home.
“You’re serious.”
“I was serious last night.”
“I thought you needed space.”
“I do.”
“So take space. Stay at Laura’s for a week.”
“That isn’t what I want.”
“What do you want?”
The question stopped me.
For so long, everything had revolved around what Nathan wanted.
What time he came home.
What meals fit his schedule.
What questions he felt comfortable answering.
What emotions he considered reasonable.
What did I want?
“I want to stop living like I’m waiting for something bad to be confirmed.”
He breathed out.
“Claire, I haven’t been fair to you.”
“No.”
“I know that.”
“You know it now.”
“I knew things weren’t good.”
“Then why didn’t you change anything?”
He didn’t answer.
That answer mattered.
“Nathan, is it over with Rachel?”
Another pause.
Too long.
I closed my eyes.
Laura looked at me from across the table.
“He asked me to come home,” I said quietly.
Nathan heard.
“Who are you talking to?”
“Laura.”
“Can we have this conversation privately?”
“It is private.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes,” I said. “I always know what you mean. That’s part of the problem.”
He sighed.
“Rachel and I are complicated.”
There it was.
Complicated.
The word people use when a simple truth makes them look bad.
“You’re married.”
“I know.”
“She knows you’re married.”
“Yes.”
“Then it isn’t complicated.”
“Claire—”
“You made a choice.”
“I made mistakes.”
“No. Forgetting milk is a mistake. Going to the same woman’s apartment repeatedly requires directions.”
He went quiet.
I surprised myself.
For months, I had rehearsed angry speeches alone in the shower.
Now I didn’t want to deliver any of them.
I just wanted off the phone.
“Did you sleep with her?”
Nathan inhaled.
I stared at the container of noodles in front of me.
“I need you to answer once,” I said. “Without managing my reaction.”
“Yes.”
Laura closed her eyes.
I already knew.
Still, hearing it created a physical sensation, like the floor shifting half an inch beneath me.
“How long?”
“Claire.”
“How long?”
“About five months.”
Five months.
April.
My birthday had been in May.
Nathan had taken me to the neighborhood Italian restaurant where we celebrated most anniversaries.
He gave me a silver bracelet.
Halfway through dinner, he disappeared to take a phone call.
I remembered sitting alone beside a candle while our waiter refilled my water.