Private Affairs

by Anie Michaels

  I agreed with him, knew what he was saying to be true, but I didn’t think it was a lost cause, didn’t think it was doomed. He sounded like it was dead and gone. I just felt like it needed some work – could be resuscitated.

  “So let’s fix it,” I cried.

  “We can’t. It’s too late.”

  “So, what? You want a divorce? You’re going to leave me?” The image of that hickey flashed into my mind. “You’re having an affair?”

  “I am not having an affair.” His voice was cold and stone-like. His affirmation was almost like a gust of chilling wind; it hit me hard and made me shiver. “I am, however, going back to the office. It’s abundantly clear I won’t be able to get any work done here tonight.”

  I watched as he stood again and walked right past me, walking back toward the dining room. He retrieved his briefcase and walked toward the front door. When I heard it open and then subsequently slam shut, I felt the loud sounds vibrate through me, and felt a little crack form in the façade I’d been wearing for what seemed like forever. It seemed as if, in one thirty minute window, we’d moved from pretending our marriage was fine to acknowledging its failure, but I was still left wallowing in confusion.

  I walked slowly to the dining room, mindlessly clearing the table, just going through the motions while my mind reeled.

  What were we to do? Just continue on this path of sharing a house but sharing nothing besides? My hands dipped in and out of the warm, soapy water, washing the dishes, rinsing them, and then setting them on the rack to dry. We had a dishwasher, but washing them by hand calmed me.

  I didn’t want a marriage of convenience, but from his words, it seemed like Derrek had thrown in the towel and wanted nothing to do with me. Well, aside from a companion to accompany him to work functions and parties. He wanted to hold up the appearance of our marriage, but drop the charade at the door.

  I saw a tear drop into the dishwater. Not realizing I was crying, the tear caught me off guard. Once I saw the first one fall, however, the rest were not far behind.

  This was not where I wanted to be, wasn’t how I envisioned my life to be at twenty-nine. When I married Derrek, I was sure we’d be happy forever. Sure, I suspected we’d have difficult times, trying times, but I thought we’d work together to get past them. I never would have imagined that one day Derrek would tell me our marriage was over, that the real part – the loving part – had been lost.

  Then there was the hickey he denied.

  Of everything that happened, the hickey was the least of my worries. Well, it would have been if he’d owned up to it. We couldn’t work past a problem if he didn’t admit to it, and I would gladly, at this point, look past any transgressions on his part if he’d just agree to be my husband again.

  I cried because he didn’t want me and I cried because I still wanted him. I wanted my marriage. I wanted the future I’d signed up for so many years ago, and I didn’t think it was fair that someone else could make those decisions for me. Didn’t I get a say in how our future played out?

  My hand slammed down on the counter, suds spraying out around my wet hand.

  “Shit,” I cried through a whisper. Perhaps I shouldn’t have ambushed him with this dinner. Perhaps I should have approached him on a different night, some other time when the pressure wasn’t so high. I should have let our anniversary pass by and tried to talk to him when he was more relaxed and not so obviously stressed. All those thoughts just made me cry harder. I never wanted to have to walk on eggshells around my husband. I also cried harder because I could remember a time when I didn’t have to, when I could go to him with any problem I was having or any emotion I was feeling.

  Once the dishes were clean and the dining room was put back in order, I ambled up the stairs and readied myself for bed, not expecting to see Derrek for the rest of the evening. And I was right. He never came home that night.

  Chapter Three

  I woke to the sound of my phone buzzing against the wood of my bedside table. I hadn’t set an alarm and wasn’t expecting to be woken up, so I startled a bit. The buzzing stopped, and before I could reach over to see what had caused it, I must have fallen asleep again because I was awoken by the buzzing a second time. This time, however, the damage was done and I was awake. A groan escaped me as I rolled over to see who was trying to contact me. I pressed the button on the phone to light up the screen and saw two text messages from Samantha.

  **Hey, woman. How did the surprise anniversary dinner go?**

  **You’re either still asleep because you’re exhausted from all the sex you and your husband had last night, or because you cried yourself to sleep. Either way, we need to talk. Text me back.**

  I sighed at her intuitive mind. Couldn’t I have just been asleep because I was sleeping? Maybe I went for a run last night and was exhausted from that. I wasn’t really surprised that she’d clued in to what had really happened, but I was more upset that now I was probably going to have to talk to her about it. Talking about it to someone else made it real. I wasn’t trying to delude myself into thinking I had a perfect marriage, but admitting to my best friend that last night had put some sort of nail in my marriage coffin would be the most real and heartbreaking conversation I might ever have. It occurred to me I would have this real and heartbreaking conversation with my best friend and not my husband, and that, perhaps, was the most depressing and telling thought of all.

  I pressed the buttons on my phone to send a message back to her.

  **Same time, same place?**

  It only took a few seconds for her to respond.

  **See you there.**

  Years ago, Samantha and I had found a tiny little coffee shop equidistant between our houses, and we’d started meeting there for coffee weekly, or whenever one of us called upon the other. It was nice, all those years, to have something steady and reliable to hang on to – something to look forward to. Sometimes, we didn’t have anything new or exciting to talk about and we just reminisced, laughing about things that happened in college or since. Other times, I held her hand as she told me about her break-ups, or we listened to each other’s work problems, trying to ease the anxiety of navigating the working world as young and independent women.

  I met Samantha when we’d been assigned as dorm roommates our freshman year of college. She and I couldn’t have been any more different. She was outgoing, brave, and brought energy with her wherever she went. Her vitality was contagious, and as soon as we met, I felt the fever she carried with her for life. I had spent my entire life protected from the adventurous spirit she exuded, and when I got a taste of it, I grabbed ahold of her and never let her get away. She taught me how to let go, how to feel free even if I really wasn’t. When I was with her, I could sometimes pretend I didn’t have my father to answer to, or a life waiting for me that I wasn’t sure I wanted to live.

  When I was twenty-four, my father passed away suddenly, and even though I was internally conflicted over my feelings toward his death, she was there for me every step of the way. I didn’t have to explain to her that I was devastated my father was dead, but relieved that I no longer had to worry about living up to his standards for me. His death saddened and freed me all in the same moment. She knew it, understood, and never judged me. Not once.

  Samantha had spent many hours listening to me talk about my marriage. She knew everything about it – the good and the bad. She also had very strong feelings about it.

  She hated Derrek.

  It hadn’t always been that way; he hadn’t always been the spawn of Satan in her eyes. All through college, Derrek and Sam got along really well. We spent countless Saturday nights at his frat house and the two of them never had one argument. She was my maid of honor in our wedding. She was so happy for us – so supportive. However, when the marriage began to change, began to fall into the dark place it seemed to reside in now, she always questioned why I stayed with him.

  I hated complaining to her about him or our relationship, because it did no
thing but further tarnish him in her eyes, but I had no one else to turn to. In my family, we didn’t talk about problems. It was understood that you were to always keep up appearances. If you had an issue, you resolved it quietly. You didn’t bring attention to it. You swept it under the rug. I had been trained my whole life to stay silent, until Sam.

  It was comforting to walk in to our usual coffee shop and see her sitting at a table waiting for me. I went straight for her. She stood when she saw me and opened her arms for me without question, knowing I’d be here with bad news instead of good.

  “What happened, Lena?”

  I let myself take the comfort from her, allowed her arms to pull out some of my anxiety. I sighed into her shoulder, trying to keep the tears at bay. I didn’t want to cry anymore.

  “I don’t know, Sam.” I pulled away and sat in the chair opposite her, giving a sad smile to the cup waiting for me. If Sam made it to the coffee shop first, she always bought my drink, and vice versa. “Thank you for the coffee.” She smiled at me, but said nothing. “I made the dinner, put on the dress, and was all ready for him when he came home from work.” I dove right into the story. I knew Sam wasn’t going to stand for pleasantries and chit chat.

  “Did he appreciate it?” she asked, not even blinking.

  “No. Actually, he seemed put out by it. Like having dinner with me was an inconvenience to his evening schedule.”

  “That bastard.”

  “It gets worse.”

  “I’m not surprised.” She raised her eyebrows, waiting for me to continue.

  “When I mentioned I wanted to work on our marriage, that I wanted to get back to the happy couple we had been when we got married, he basically told me our marriage was over and that I should get used to the status quo. He said that our marriage fell apart a long time ago and that it was too late to fix it.” Samantha said nothing, but I could tell she was holding her rage inside for my benefit. She knew what I had been hoping for, knew I wanted my husband back. So, out of love for me, she was reining in all the expletives I knew she wanted to unleash, because she knew it wouldn’t help me, wouldn’t make me feel any better. I loved her even more for it.

  I looked down at my coffee cup, slowly twisting it around and around, watching it circle in my fingers, while I continued.

  “He wants to hold up the façade of our marriage, you know, still make appearances together in public, but pretty much indicated he was done with me in private.” My voice faltered on the last few words, my throat constricting with that painful pinch that was always followed by tears, aching. But I pushed it back. I wouldn’t cry any more. “He only wants to be my husband when other people can see us.”

  Sam was quiet for a few moments more, and then she adjusted in her seat and tilted her head to the side. “Why would any man want to continue a marriage without the benefits of marriage? I mean, let’s be real. He’s a man. I can understand him wanting to stay in the marriage if you were going to try and fix it and work on the intimacy, or I can understand him cutting his losses and wanting out in order to find that intimacy in other places. But what hot-blooded man chooses to stay in a sexless marriage and wants it to remain that way?”

  I didn’t look up at her and I didn’t say anything, afraid to tell her what I’d seen under his shirt collar. Being a terrible husband, being absent and emotionally unavailable, was bad enough. If I told her what I saw, she’d likely be unstoppable in her rage and find him to take her anger out on him. She would also try to pressure me into leaving him, and I knew I couldn’t do that. I also knew she’d never be able to understand why. The mistake I’d made before our marriage had even begun would keep me tethered to him.

  I sighed loudly and shook my head. “I couldn’t fathom the thoughts running through his mind. Perhaps in a few days I can try to talk to him again. Maybe I just caught him at a bad time.”

  “Your wedding anniversary was a bad time for him to talk to you?” she asked snidely. I didn’t take offense. I knew she wasn’t angry with me.

  “He’s stressed at work,” I mumbled.

  “Don’t make excuses for him, Lena.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize either!”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to take a stand! Don’t let him walk all over you and don’t let him make all the decisions! It’s your marriage, too, Lena. It’s your life just as much as it is his.”

  I heard her words, felt them sink into me, and then I felt them fall away. I was conflicted. Before I could stop them, the words were falling out of my mouth. “I think he’s cheating on me,” I whispered.

  Sam didn’t blink, didn’t breathe. She just looked at me as she formulated her thoughts. “Why do you think that?”

  “Last night, when he came home, I saw something inside his shirt near his collar. At first, stupidly, I thought it was a bruise. But I eventually realized it was not a bruise. It was a hickey.”

  “Did you ask him about it?”

  “I tried, but he changed the subject and left.”

  “Hmm. Suspicious,” she said, warily. I nodded. We were both quiet for a few minutes. I replayed the whole evening in my mind, running through each and every thing I could have done differently. But no decisions I’d made or words I could have said differently changed the fact that he’d come home with that mark on him. A mark another woman had put on him.

  “Why don’t you leave him, honey?” Sam’s words were a quiet whisper, as if her voice could have scared me away. She was treading lightly, not wanting me to turn away from the direction the conversation was heading.

  “I can’t,” I whispered, just as quietly.

  “Yes,” she said, placing her hand over mine. “You can.” I shook my head slightly, feeling my hair sway back and forth over my ears.

  “No,” I whispered again. I tipped my head up to look her in the eyes again. “I can’t, Sam. Really. It’s complicated.”

  “How can I help?”

  I shrugged. My next words were drowning in tears, choked out on sobs. “I don’t know.” I don’t know. Those three words were the answer to a lot of questions I had running through my mind. Was there any hope left for my marriage? Would I spend the rest of my life tied to a man who didn’t want to be with me? Would I feel this lonely forever? Would I go the rest of my life without feeling a man’s hands on me again? My head fell into my hands as I tried to cry discreetly in the coffee shop. I heard Sam move and then heard her next to me before I felt her arms come around me. I leaned into her and let the tears come, but stifled the sobs, tried to hold at least those in.

  “What are you going to do?” Sam finally asked after I’d calmed down a little.

  “Well,” I said, wiping my eyes. “I guess I’m going to find out if he’s really cheating on me.”

  “The hickey isn’t enough proof for you?”

  I shook my head again. “Listen,” I started, unsure of how I could explain something to her I’d never explained to anyone. Unsure of how to say the words I’d never uttered to a single soul. “I can’t just go on a hunch,” I said quietly. “I need actual proof.”

  “For peace of mind?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Sure.”

  She tilted her head to the side again, her eyebrows narrowing at me. “What’s going on, Lena?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t go into any more detail than that. All I’m saying is, if anything is going to change, I need actual, physical proof he’s cheating. Me spying what I think is a hickey on the inside of his collar isn’t going to cut it.”

  “Well, then,” Sam said with resolution in her voice. “We’d better get a rental car, some black turtlenecks and ski masks, and brush up on our stakeout skills.”

  “What?” I said, half laughing.

  Sam had a sneaky smile on her face when she answered me, rubbing her hands together. “We’re going to stalk your husband.”

  Chapter Four

  I sat in the passenger seat of a black Toyota Coroll
a, quietly crunching on Cheetos, my eyes glued to the front doors of my husband’s work. Cheetos, in hindsight, might have been a bad snack choice when wearing all black, and I struggled to keep the neon orange cheese powder from making its way into the fibers of my new turtleneck. I heard a giggle and looked over at Sam, sitting in the driver’s seat.

  “What’s so funny?”

  She took a bite of the licorice in her hand and waved the red rope between us. “We might be some of the worst stalkers ever.”

  She wasn’t wrong, although, we had gotten most of the basics down. Black car? Check. The cover of night? Check. Black clothes to blend into said cover of night? Check and check. But we also might have indulged and turned our rental car into a snack wagon, using our stakeout as an opportunity and excuse to eat gas station fare, which we never really had a valid reason to buy. But under the guise of our stalker outfits, it seemed fitting to break a few rules, even if they were self-imposed.

  It had taken two weeks from our original conversation about my husband’s possible affair for me to agree to Sam’s crazy idea. At first, although it was tempting to see if we could find out what was going on, I wasn’t really ready to know. I went home from our coffee shop date and pushed the idea of his affair out of my mind. I had gone back to plan A. If I tried to be the perfect wife, perhaps he would come around and want to be my husband again.

  So I baked and cleaned and was waiting to be the doting wife when he came home from work. Only, sometimes he never came home from work, and most of the time, when he did come home, it was so late that I was either crashed on the couch in the living room, or had long given up and was asleep in our bed upstairs. On top of that, he often left for work before the sun came up and I would wake to a house just as empty as it had been when I’d fallen asleep.

  I counted eight days in a row in which I didn’t once lay eyes on my husband.

  I saw proof of him and his presence around the house: a coffee mug in the sink, wet towels in the laundry room, opened mail on the counter. But I never saw him and I hadn’t spoken to him since our anniversary. He wouldn’t answer when I called him at work, and I was sent directly to voicemail if I called his cell. After about the first five days of silence from him, I stopped trying to reach him at all.