Playing Chicken With Myself

At the end of summer, my husband met me after a business trip for a few days at the shore. It had only been a couple weeks since I learned about his big affair, so I was still pretty much a mess. I left the small town early that week, determined that I was going to confront him before we got on the plane to go home. I drove through three states on that trip, using the time in the car to rehearse my lines. I tried out different styles -- sad, angry, defiant, confused -- but always hurt. I had long conversations with myself, making up his responses and practicing how I'd answer. And I started planning what I'd do when we got back, if I decided to leave.

I picked him up at the airport on Friday afternoon, anticipating we'd hit the weekend traffic that locals warned me about. Instead, the post-Katrina gas price spike kept a lot of people home, and we breezed out to our seaside B&B. Maybe it was the unexpected ease of the drive, or because I was genuinely happy to see him, but somewhere along the way, the righteous fervor that had propelled me all week evaporated. Our conversation about infidelity never got any further than People Magazine's obsession with Brad Pitt.

After declaring myself for Team Aniston, the best I could do on the subject of us was a very tepid, "When was the last time you slept with someone who wasn't me?"

Nervous laughter from the other side of the car, "A long time ago, baby." Pause. "But you know, I could sleep with someone else tomorrow and it wouldn't mean anything to me. It wouldn't mean that I don't love you or that I love you any less."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and fought back the urge to scream. Instead, I answered, "I couldn't do it. Maybe it wouldn't mean anything to me, but I know it would mean something to you. I could never do anything to hurt you that much."

End of conversation.

We had a great vacation.


The Wife Who Knows