Staring down at my cell, I swallow thickly. He messaged me. He reached out to me. I can’t explain why it makes my bruised heart hurt even more. Maybe I wish he’d just be cruel and not try or not care. It hurts so much more to think that he’s trying. Hope is an odd little thing. I want to cling to it, but if I do, the inevitable fall will be that much more deadly.

He always messaged in the morning, though, after the late night of whatever the hell he’d been up to. I’ve always thought it was cute how he’d text me to tell me good morning, even if he was only just then getting into bed.

But it’s 2:00 a.m. in London, his prime time, and my phone’s lit up on the desk with a message from him.

I was finally getting some work done, the keys clacking and the to-do list shrinking somewhat although for every item crossed off, I feel as if I’ve added two. Focusing and managing to write up some feedback along with creating a marketing tactic for a client has been a highlight of my night … Until that message came through.

Half of me doesn’t want to answer him. Cue the grinding halt to any progress I’d made. I don’t want to read whatever he’s sent and go back into the black hole of self-pity. But I can’t resist. He is a drug and I am an addict. We could go days without speaking before, but in this moment, every second that I stare at my phone knowing there’s an unread message from him feels like an eternity in hell.

My hand inches toward it, the need to see what he has to say overriding the anger and the sadness. The need to be wanted by him and to feel loved winning out over my dignity.

So I click on the damn thing and my heart does a little pitter-patter of acknowledgment. When I swallow, it’s as if I’m shoving my heart back down where it belongs.

I hate it when you’re mad at me.

I stare at his message, feeling the vise in my chest tighten. My fingers hesitate over the keys as I read it again and again. Before I can respond, another message comes through.

Forgive me.

That’s the crux of the situation. The dams break loose.

Forgive you for what exactly? I message him back without even thinking. Whatever he’s hiding is bad, I know it is. I can feel it deep down in my core. Just like I knew that night when his mother was diagnosed. Whatever he’s done is enough to ruin us.

But we were already ruined, weren’t we? It’s been a slow burn of destruction. My intuition is hardly ever wrong. We’ve grown apart. We’re different people now. We don’t belong together. We never did, not really. Admitting that is what hurts the most.

With my body trembling, I force myself to get up and move, even if it’s just to walk through the house. I’m only wearing a baggy shirt and a pair of socks. I wore the shirt to bed last night and I should really shower and get dressed. It’s a rule I’ve had since I started working from home.

Every day, I dress as if I’m going into the office. Right now I just don’t have the energy.

Evan sends two texts, one right after the other as I walk to the kitchen.

We can work through this.

I love you.

I only glance at them before putting the phone down on the counter and heading straight to the fridge for some wine. Taking in a staggered breath, I focus on ignoring the pain. Think logically, I command myself. Don’t fall back into his arms without having a grasp on the problem. Because otherwise it will happen again. That’s what happens when you accept a behavior without acknowledgment and a plan to change.

There’s only half a glass left in the dark red bottle, but it’ll have to do.

I glance at the clock as I sip it. It’s after 9:00 p.m. I’ve barely slept, barely worked and hours passed before I realized I hadn’t brushed my teeth today. At least I’m drinking from a clean glass.

It only takes one sip before I tell him what’s on my mind. Communication is key. All the years of therapy taught me that. There is no relationship worth keeping if you don’t trust what someone says.

I don’t understand why you won’t tell me what you did.

Won’t tell you what? he texts back and it pisses me off.

“Does he think I’m stupid?” I mutter beneath my breath as my blood boils. The anger is only an ounce stronger than the pain. In the back of my mind I note that only crazy people talk to themselves, but even if that’s the case, I accept it. This man makes me crazy. I can admit that much.

Don’t treat me like this, I answer him, feeling weak. I’m practically begging him in my head but when I reread the text it sounds strong. I deserve better.

I down the remaining wine after sending the last line, the cool red soothing a tiny bit of an ache. I don’t know exactly what it is I deserve but I have a rough idea. Him telling me the truth. Him confiding in me. Or a better husband altogether.

As I grab the last bottle of red wine on the rack and bring it back to the kitchen, I realize this is how women feel when they stay in these marriages.

They’d rather be told a sweet little lie and believe it than face the truth. Those are my choices: demand the truth and accept the lie he gives me or … I don’t know.

Right now, it’s exactly what I want. Just lie to me. Tell me there’s nothing that happened. That it’s blown out of proportion. That it was just a kiss. Yes, that one. That last one. I could forgive it, but better yet, I could believe it. I could allow myself to believe it, even if deep down inside I know it was more.

Lie to me and love me. He knows I’ll still love him. It would make everything better.

The barstool legs scratch on the floor as I sit down to uncork the new bottle.

I just want him to come home. Tell me everything is fine and make up something that’s easy to forgive. It was only a kiss.

With a bottle of wine and a full glass in front of me, I go back to the beginning. Back to when I was stronger and I actually had self-respect.

Back when I knew better.

The memory and the wine are the only things to keep me company for the rest of the night, because Evan doesn’t text me back with the truth or a lie. He gives me silence.

Six years ago

The wind blows in my face, alleviating some of the stifling summer heat as I pull into the gas station parking lot in Brooklyn. It’s late and the hustle and bustle of New York has waned, but the nightlife on this side of the city is only getting started.

Some would say it’s the bad part of town, but others say it’s the fun part. I guess it depends on what circles you run in. New to New York and struggling to find where I belong, I suppose I’m keeping an open mind. The bright lights and sophistication are what I came here for, but making it here isn’t so easily achieved.

I’m slow to step on the brakes and pull into the last spot that lines the front of the small convenience store. I’ve only been here a few times, either needing to stop for gas or a quick bite to eat on my way to or from work on the west side of the city. It’s a clerical job for a newspaper, but beggars can’t be choosers and the bills need to be paid while I learn the ropes, snag clients and rub elbows, so to speak.

Several cars are parked in front of the store and a few men head inside as I pull up. They vary from obviously expensive to looking like they’re falling apart. The vehicles, that is.

I notice the men, and they notice me. Averting my eyes to avoid making small talk, I turn down my radio and put my car in park.