The Affair (23 page)

I noticed that Roger had dressed in just-cleaned chinos and a faded-to-perfection blue workshirt and smelled of my all-time
favorite cologne. Now I felt terrible. He clearly had expected a nice dinner—and who knows what else—but I’d ruined it. I
served up the salad and spooned carrot soup into two ceramic bowls.

I’d lost my appetite.

“Not eating?” Roger asked. He wouldn’t look at me.

“I don’t think so,” I told him, trying to sound conciliatory. “I’ve got some paperwork to catch up on. Why don’t you two just
have a nice meal without me.” It came off as spiteful.

Petey twisted around in his chair, soup dripping down his chin. “Eat with us, Mommy. Please?”

Roger kept his eyes on the soup bowl. I ached to be with Pete, but said, “No, sweetie. You guys have a boys’ night, okay?
I’ll be up to help tuck you in bed later.”

I know I need to decide whether I should stay with Roger. Let me sort it out:

The pros

1. It’s better for Pete if Roger and I can work it out and stay together.

2. Roger is a great dad.

3. We have years invested in the marriage—can I really just throw it all away?

4. Financial stability. I’d be dishonest if I didn’t list this as a factor. Before my marriage started to fall apart, I never
really understood women (including some of my clients) who refused to leave lousy husbands just because they paid the bills.
Now
I understand. I don’t want to have to work full-time. I don’t want to rent a crappy little apartment on the south side of
town. I don’t want to have to choose between dry cleaning and eating out. Yes, I know I sound like a spoiled little brat,
but I’ve grown accustomed to the creature comforts of a dual income, and I don’t want to give it up. There, I’ve said it.

5. Fear. I’m afraid to put myself back on the singles market. I don’t mind a light, sex-based relationship; but I’m terrified
of making a commitment to a man. I’ve messed up one relationship, how can I be trusted with another? What if I never really
loved Roger? Do I have the capacity to love? Blah, blah, blah.

The cons

1. What if Roger cheats on me again? What if he’s incapable of being faithful?

2. Can I trust him? Can we ever get back to where we used to be?

3. What if he’s not sexually attracted to me (again)?

4. What if there’s a wonderful man somewhere out there for me, but I won’t ever find him because I’m stuck with Roger? (I
know how awful that sounds.)

Instead of obsessing about men, I should be focusing on me, my life, what I want. Can I help it if my vision of a life
always
includes a man? I love men, love sex, love companionship, love being in love.

Speaking of men, I hadn’t seen Ben in weeks and convinced myself that it was him on the radio, but Betsy said I was crazy.
“He probably has the flu like everyone else in America,” she said. “Why don’t you call him to see how he’s doing?” (A part
of me resented Betsy’s suggestion. I felt like she was egging me on from the comfort and security of her happy home. She’s
got four kids, a good husband, a stable marriage. Maybe she gets some vicarious satisfaction from my suddenly single life.)

Yet I felt emboldened by her encouragement. I looked in the phone book and found Ben’s number. I felt giddy and flushed just
looking at his name in print. I dialed. He picked up on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Ben Murphy?”

“Yes?” His voice was warm, easy. I could see that cleft above his lip, the glittery eyes. “And this is … ?”

I told him my name. “You know, from the club? Star-bucks?” He didn’t say anything for a long while. Surely he didn’t have
that many women to sort through.

“Ah, yes,” he said finally. “Of course I remember. How can I help you?”

God, I felt like such an idiot.
How can I help you?!
Was this the guy who’d kissed me in my car, or some salesman behind the counter at Radio Shack? I wished I’d never called.
I wanted to hang up.

“Uh, is this a bad time?”

“No, not at all.” Silence, again.

“Have you been sick?”

“No. Why?”

Now I felt more than foolish. I felt ill. “Oh, just wondering. With the flu and all going around. You know.” I had to ask
him if he’d called in to that radio show. Now. Just ask! But I couldn’t. I felt like such a gutless, spineless, wimped-out
jackass! “Ooops. There goes my doorbell. Hope you feel better! Bye!” I slammed down the phone. Hope you feel better? How lame!
He already said he wasn’t sick. I was such a wuss! Then, continuing my self torture, I sat by the phone and sent desperate
brain waves, waiting for him to dial *69, get my number, and call me back.

He didn’t. But I saw him at the club this morning, and he seemed to gaze longingly at me. He
wanted
me. I just knew it.

My inner seventh-grader doesn’t want to give up. Here is Ben, being reasonable, mature, smart. Here’s me, wanting to seduce
him into bed, all the more enticed by his desire to pull away. Now, tell me, how screwed up is
that?

This time it was
me
who grabbed the StairMaster next to his, and though I didn’t say anything besides “hi,” I pulled off my tank top so that
I was wearing only my sports bra, something I rarely do. I could see him watching me as I pulled off the top, then again as
I wiped the sweat from my chest, letting the towel linger
at my cleavage. I felt so manipulative, so raunchy! Why did I do that?

’Til next time,

I’m still in that odd and unfamiliar state of not knowing where I stand with my husband. Even the phrase “my husband” is beginning
to feel like an ill-fitting jacket. He’s part of my life—I see him almost every day—but he’s more like a brother, a roommate,
a friend. Can I remain married to him under those circumstances? Should we aim for an “arrangement,” in which we share a home
but not our bed?

I’ve been checking up on my old friend Alyssa. Her lawsuit against Roger seems to be in a holding pattern while her lawyer
rounds up more witnesses to depose. At the supermarket I ran into Letha Harris, an acquaintance of mine from Lamaze class
who teaches first grade at Oak Hills Elementary, where Alyssa works. I asked about kindergarten teachers there, under the
pretext of preparing Pete for starting school next year (as if I’d ever let him in Alyssa’s class—over my dead body!).

Letha’s take on lovely Ms. Elkins: What she lacks in experience, she makes up in energy and creativity. The kids love her,
parents are divided (fathers like her, moms are wary), and colleagues have yet to accept her into the fold (“My guess is she’s
too damn sexy for them,” Letha observed). As for the principal, “She’s got him under her thumb. She managed to get a $1,000
grant to establish a saltwater aquarium when everyone else is still struggling just to get Lego tables.”

I hadn’t heard from my client Claire in about two months and had written her off until this week, when she called to say that
she was in “big trouble.” Claire is usually unflappable, and it was weird to hear her sound so shaken. I’ve arranged to meet
with her first thing Monday morning. I wonder what’s up?

’Til next time,

“What, precisely, are we?”

The question took me by surprise, but shouldn’t have. I’d been wondering the same thing myself. It was Friday night, and Roger
and I were stretched out before a fierce and magnificent fire, probably the last until next fall. He’d brought a bucket of
chicken, and I’d made his favorite salad: wild greens, toasted walnuts, Gorgonzola cheese, and mandarin oranges. He refilled
my wineglass, slipped off my clogs, and rubbed my feet with more care and skill than he’d ever demonstrated even in our happiest
years. I lolled my head back and felt the fire’s dry heat against my face. He pulled my little toe. “So? What are we?”

I knew we needed to have this sorting-out discussion, but with my full belly and warm feet, I was too content to get into
it. Pete was finally asleep, the workweek was behind me, and except for the fact that my marriage was in limbo and my romantic
life confused, it was a truly perfect moment. But I owed him an answer, if only an abridged one. “Well … we’re Pete’s parents,
and we’re …” He watched me, hopefully. “… figuring things out.”

“I guess I can accept that for now.”

“Good. Now keep rubbing,” I commanded, flicking his nose with the tip of my sock, hoping a playful tone would derail a serious
discussion.

He bit his lower lip, an expression I always took as a vestige of childhood—his signal that he was gearing up to ask a favor.
“Now that you’re putty in my hands,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows, “it’s probably a good time to ask you something.” He
topped off my glass again.

Uh-oh. I wasn’t prepared for sex, mentally or physically. Now that I was in hot pursuit of Ben, I didn’t want to muddy things
by falling into bed with—horrors!—my own husband. Besides, the Merlot he had brought had made me too drowsy. I half considered
pulling a cushion off the sofa and falling asleep by the fire.

“What did you have in mind?” I asked, certain of what he’d say next. But he surprised me.

“I want to move back in.”

I sat straight up. He stopped rubbing my feet.

“I thought I’d camp out in the guest room, at least for now.”

I looked at him, absorbing his sweet and somber face. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was the foot massage, or maybe I’ve
lost my mind, but there seemed to be only one right answer. “Yes, of course. Petey will be thrilled.” At that moment, I had
no reservations. I was ready.

“Thank you.” Roger crawled toward me, brushed the hair away from my face, lifted my chin with his finger, and put his lips
on mine. He smelled of wine and soap and, well, a uniquely Roger scent that hasn’t changed since the day I met him. I let
him kiss me, then kissed him back. The only sound I could hear was the dull
groan of the fire, my breath as it escaped my parted lips, the pendulum of the grandfather clock in the dining room. He kissed
me harder, and I arched my back to fill the space between our bodies. He slipped a hand beneath my sweater and began trying
to unhook my bra, until he realized it was the kind that fastened in the front. Before his fingers could change direction,
I’d already changed my mind.

“No,” I whispered, pulling his hand away like a chaste schoolgirl. “Let’s not.”

He persisted.

“We can’t do this,” I tried again. His lips were still on mine, muffling my protests. He tasted as sweet as berries. His tongue
explored my mouth as if for the first time. My body responded. I could feel him reach down to unbuckle his belt. “Roger,”
I said, “not now. Really.”

But I was swept along by a force as strong as an undertow, I was woozy and slow, incapable of resisting. Now he was on top
of me, and I could feel his tumescence against my belly. “Remember this?” he said with a low chuckle. “We’ve missed you.”
He pulled my flannel skirt above my waist and now was inside me. My hips met his urgent thrusts as I was enveloped in his
heat. I opened my eyes to find him staring at me. “We’re still married,” he grunted. “This isn’t a sin.”

He came. I did not. I could not. Just as I felt ready to climax, my brain snapped the shades wide open and the cold glare
of reality came flooding in. I hadn’t asked for this.

Roger pulled out of me, then flopped on the blanket beside me, gasping. “Oh. God. That was incredible.”

In the meantime, I felt stricken. I lay beside him,
silent and motionless, my heart trembling. Roger moves in tomorrow.

’Til next time,