1988

What the fuck am I going to do?

I sit cross-legged on our bed, thinking about the past few years.

How am I going to explain this? 

We've been down this road before. More than once. There was the re-kindled flame from highschool. The woman on vacation. The man from the business trip. But this was different.  

This was an epic fuck up that was about to completely implode my life.

It's been two years since I’ve seen him. Two years since I’ve smelled him. Twenty-four months since I’ve kissed him. Seven hundred and thirty days since I’ve felt him inside of me. Seventeen thousand five hundred and twenty hours since he told me he was choosing her.

I should have seen it coming. How long can something like that really last? There were so many signs that I chose to ignore because I believed what he said. Actions really do speak louder than words, I just didn’t want to hear them. 

To be clear, I loved my husband.I loved my life. I love my children. I met him, and everything changed. 

I just wanted to have fun. It was supposed to be fun. It started with a few drinks after work. That led to a few more drinks after work, then coffee in the morning. It was a one time thing. Then it was just every once in a while. Then I couldn’t get enough.

It was one of those toxic relationships, you know? When you meet someone and you are immediately infatuated. You start losing track of time, of responsibilities, of yourself. All in the name of love. 

He said it was bad timing. That’s how we justified it. It was simply bad timing. Why shouldn’t we get what we want because the timing wasn’t perfect? 

We met on his first day at work. As soon as I saw him, I knew he was trouble. I had had crushes before. Who hadn’t? But even then I knew this was different. I knew when I looked in his eyes that I could lose myself in them, I knew when I felt the electricity running between us as his hand accidentally brushed mine, 

I tried to stay away, I really did. I know what you’re thinking: “that’s what they all say.” But it was true. I avoided him as much as possible, which is extremely hard to do in a small office. The universe had another plan for us. Day after day, project after project, we kept getting thrown together. 

The first night he kissed me we both agreed it would never happen again. It had been a long few weeks getting things ready for an important client. Friday night when we finally finished, we decided we should go out for a celebratory drink. Well, I decided. 

It was all innocent. A glass of rosè for me and Patròn for him. We said cheers and clinked our glasses , ordering a second round before the first drop had touched our lips. 

A few drinks later and he was walking me to my car. We were laughing and wondering what the next work week would bring us. Reminiscing about the first day we met. He had had a crush on me. I told him I had too. He wasn’t thinking about his wife when he leaned in to kiss me, and I wasn’t thinking about my husband when I kissed him back,  It was just us. 

It was fireworks. It was an explosion. It was the sun touching your face after months of winter darkness. It was coming up for air after nearly drowning. 

Too soon, he pulled away. Apologized. We said it wouldn’t happen again. That we were friends, just friends.

I won’t bore you with the details, we all know how this story goes. It did happen again. We weren’t just friends. We fell in love, or so I thought. It wasn’t what we planned, it wasn’t what we had expected to happen, but sometimes life is messy. There was jealousy and spite and anger and love and passion. 

It was difficult to live a double life. The sneaking around and the late night calls was a lot for both of us to take. 

It had been almost a year. That night, I lay in bed beside him. I didn’t want to ask the question, I didn’t want to talk about it. I wanted to stay in our fantasy world forever, but I had to do it. I had a husband at home and two beautiful children. He was a newly wed. He told me he wouldn’t leave her, couldn’t leave her. This had to be it for us.

Months passed and we continued to work together. We kept it cordial, professional. Every fucking day I cried on my way home. I cried for him, I cried for me. Over what could’ve been. Over my guilt. Day by day it got easier. 

He was later transferred to another branch and I was able to get back to my perfect life. 

So why now? 

Why all these years later was I sitting on my bed, wondering how to tell my husband. How was I going to explain that it was a mistake.That I wasn’t thinking clearly. That work was stressful and he was there. That it was nice to feel wanted, to feel loved, to feel like I could be or do anything. I was caught up in the drama of it all, but it was over. I was where I wanted to be.

I saw her first message about a month ago. My husband had forgotten his phone at home, when I heard the Facebook notification I took a look to see who it was. It was a message explaining who she was and that they needed to talk. I couldn’t breathe. Why the fuck was his wife messaging my husband? I quickly deleted the message.

But a few weeks later, she reached out again. 

This time she cut to the chase. She wasn’t waiting for him to ask her what they needed to discuss, she dove right into detailing my relationship with her husband. Ex husband.

I deleted the messaged, blocked her account and prayed to fucking God that this would be the end of it. They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and let me tell you, this woman was ready to prove the old saying right. Messages, phone calls, letters - who the fuck even sends letter anymore? - she wasn’t letting up. I couldn’t sustain this forever. I knew I needed to come clean. I needed to tell him everything and beg for forgiveness. Beg him not to leave. It was in the past, it was over. He had to forgive me, right? He had to see how much we’ve grown, how far we’ve come as a team. He had to give me another chance.

I sit cross-legged on our bed and I hear the dog barking. I hear the front door open. I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. I hold my breath, wait for the bedroom door knob to turn. 

“Please, please forgive me.”