Destination Unknown

“Please don’t do it.”

Meagan whispered the words, but as she was alone behind the wheel of her parked, twelve-year-old station wagon, no one else would hear even if she had shouted. The low car felt like it was crouching behind the hedge as she watched her husband standing on the deck of their town’s best hotel, a modern monstrosity that perched on the lake’s edge, its outside adorned with colorful wooden chairs, bulbous glass lanterns and railings made of white ropes as thick as a man’s wrist. It was a woeful mismatch for the rest of the main street, which was a worn-out thoroughfare lined with squatty, old buildings and dusty storefronts.

The sunset over the lake was glorious, its oranges and magentas reflected darkly on the cold, black water, tiny ripples pulsing under the glow. He wasn’t watching it, however; his focus was elsewhere. He was almost in silhouette against the setting sun, most of his colors darkened to shadow. But there was no doubt of who he was.

And there was no doubt of who she was.

Meagan recognized the slender woman in a short dress and high-heeled sandals who held his attention as though she were cold steel and he, magnetized. She was the creative director for his company, a marketing firm that started thriving under his supervision after his promotion last year. She was hired shortly after that. He had been on the candidate selection committee and had seemed peculiarly blasé about this particular hire. Meagan remembered meeting her at the company Christmas party, held at this very hotel last December. Had she detected – and ignored – a troublesome, tingly, little spark back then? Tonight, her husband and this woman had reunited here during what he’d dubbed a department “teambuilding event” that had, as far as Meagan could discern, ended an hour ago. Yet here they were, on the deck, watching each other and not the sunset, as she, in turn, watched them.

Their body language was as distinct as if it were narrated, the way they leaned toward each other. the heads-thrown-back laughter, the gentle touches, punctuating their conversation and saying so much more. It didn’t take a heartsick wife to understand this tongue. It was the same sizzling all those burning fuses emitted just before igniting, the language of lust, and sometimes, love.

She had held that conversation with him, herself, in a different place and time, so far back it seemed comedic. The whispered passion, the promises, the horniness and idealism convincing them that the future would always be like this. Since then, they had obtained a mortgage, a fenced yard, a pair of furniture-eating dachshunds, an incontinent cat, all in the requisite colors. And, oh yeah, they added a couple of kids who always needed something stuffed in their mouths like baby birds and who were now old enough to require rides here and there, sports equipment, the right clothes and tech, help with their homework, and, sometimes, lessons on values, loyalty and respect.

These she supplied with the skill of a hardened laborer shoveling coal into a boiler to keep that locomotive steaming ahead at full speed, next stop unknown and, quite honestly, irrelevant.

That was her life and she lived it within the lines.

But it seemed he did not. To her surprise and dismay, he ignored the guidelines, thumbed his nose at them, jumped over them, broke out of jail, and here he was at a hotel with a child in a dress – What was she, 25? – her perfect breasts bubbling out of the top of the frock, her legs as lean and clean as needles, her neck firm and long, her back silky and strong. If Meagan had squished herself into a dress like that she’d have to bind herself in a tight undergarment to keep everything from hanging over – and under – forfeiting breathing for a few hours in an attempt to create the illusion of firm youth. But she could see clearly in the rosy light that his woman needed no such girding.

And him. This explained the new fitness routine, the weight loss, the requests for her opinion on updating his wardrobe. Apparently, in this new reality, the husband asks his wife for help in choosing the outfit he would use to help attract a new lover.

And yet, they weren’t lovers. Not yet. She could tell from the flirty shyness, the hesitance, that it had not happened yet. They were still moving toward that, their faces getting closer, their laughter giddier, swaying back and forth together like a cobra and a charmer, a pipe between them, guiding their movements with thin, pulsing tones from its bulbous belly. Even as the sun dipped further, their intensity seemed to increase.

Meagan, feeling helpless, watched from her parking spot. She was just twenty yards away, yet it seemed so distant as if she were just an observer, an audience, not part of their nascent world where all things were fresh and funny, where they seemed to have no concerns other than each other’s throbbing adoration. They had no cat vomit to step in, no mildewing towel forgotten behind the bedroom door, no golden bottle of mysterious pills tucked next to a baggy of marijuana in their daughter’s dresser drawer, no failing math grade on their son’s report card.

The new couple moved closer still, pretending to watch the sunset, but just using it as an excuse to touch their bodies together, side by side, the roundness below her hip grazing his upper leg and resting there. He turned his head toward her. This was the time. He could so easily put his arm around her back, pull her tighter, push his face against her hair, his nose in her ear, his lips and tongue tentatively tasting her neck.

This was the time when Meagan could emerge from the car, clamor under the rope banister, walk up to them, say his name. Or perhaps she might just stand nearby, as if to watch the sunset too, until he happened to turn and notice her. What would he do? What would he say?

And what should she do? Should she confront them and blow it up or pretend she didn’t know and keep living the life that didn’t exist? Her insides felt weak and light, her hand shook on the steering wheel, her mouth so dry she couldn’t swallow. This was the shattered pain of hurt, the shock and embarrassment of realizing the world in which she felt secure and confident, the one she thought was safe and loving, actually teetered on toothpicks and cobwebs.

Why was she so afraid to go up to them and let them know there was no secret any longer? Perhaps her fear was driven by the knowledge that, as soon as she made a move, everything would change. It would be like throwing a bag of fire into a wasp nest. What would come out fighting? What would flee? What would burn to the ground? What would be left after the secret was gone?

The possibilities flitted through her mind at hyperspeed. She could see that after each step, she would be compelled into further action. Each decision birthed new choices. If she confronted them, she would then have to decide: Forgive? Divorce? Something in between? God, not counseling, not that brutal, boring, excruciating process. If the roll of the dice came up with “divorce,” then there would be decisions about the house, the children, each of their financial realities. If “forgive” came out on top, weepy years of distrust, pain and fury would be on the calendar.

Another concept flickered at the forefront, albeit briefly: Freedom. Freedom from him, freedom from the kids, freedom to start new adventures, to play with new lovers, new men, hell, maybe new women or even both. Freedom to lie in a hammock and read a book without someone or something squawking their demands, expectations, indignations.

Was it worth it?

She felt a cynical smile unexpectedly cross her lips as it dawned on her that the freedom she saw would probably end up being his, not hers. No one with the basic qualifications necessary to call herself a mother would be allowed to dump it all during a divorce. She’d get the same old house, the same old kids, the same soccer schedule, parent-teacher meetings, the diligent preparation of meals that were frequently rejected with a “yuck.”

But maybe?

She refocused on the couple who still somehow hovered in that suspenseful spot: Would they or wouldn’t they go one step farther? One kiss, then one hotel room, one path toward the destruction of so many promises and so many truths that had suddenly flopped over and become lies.

“Please don’t do it,” she whispered as she watched her husband, his head turned toward the young woman.

She was out of time.

Multiple roads, destination unknown.

She made her choice.