That night I stayed late at work, and Olivia suggested drinks, and for a few hours I laughed without responsibility pressing on me.
When I came home, Lauren said quietly, “I called you twice,” and I snapped at her, saying I could not breathe if every moment had to be accounted for.
She whispered, “I’m sorry,” and I stood there knowing I had crossed something I could not easily return from.
Distance became routine, and I divided myself into two men, the one who cared for my wife and the one who escaped with Olivia. One night in a parking garage after rain, she kissed me, and I did not stop her.
I told myself it meant nothing, then I told myself that again when it stopped being true, and soon we were meeting in hotels and her apartment, building a life made of lies. With her, I felt wanted instead of needed, and that difference became my excuse.
At home, Lauren grew quieter, and one night she asked, “Do you still see me when you look at me,” and my silence answered before my words could lie.
Later she held my hand and said, “Just don’t leave me while standing next to me,” and I promised her I wouldn’t, already planning the next betrayal.
When Olivia suggested a weekend trip to Asheville, North Carolina, I refused until I said yes, telling Lauren I had a work conference.
She only asked, “Will you call me when you get there,” and I said yes.
I called once, sounding loving while Olivia showered behind me, but then I stopped answering as the days stretched into ten. Lauren’s calls turned into silence, and I ignored them, choosing escape over responsibility.
When I returned home, the house felt wrong, quiet in a way that meant absence instead of rest. Her medicine was gone, and a letter waited on the bed.
