I look down at my conservative button-down, loose tie, sleeves rolled up, then back at his clean lines and open collar. I feel like the before picture in a men's style ad. "Yeah, something like that," I say. He flags the bartender with two fingers.
Doesn't even look at Kristen. "Cosmo for her, neat bourbon for me." The drink appears bright and pink. Kristen smiles. "Just like college," she says, taking the first sip.
I didn't know that was her drink in college. Somehow, he did. In the moment, I tell myself I'm being ridiculous. They're just catching up.
Old friends. She deserves a night to feel good, to not talk about permission slips and grocery lists and my deadlines. I park myself at the edge of the group, laugh when everyone else laughs, thumb over my email app like a security blanket. Older me watches that memory and winces.
I see how she angles her body toward him, how she leans in to hear his jokes even when the room isn't that loud, how her eyes light up more for his stories than when I walked in. I see how his hand finds her lower back again and again, and she never steps away. My first instinct isn't to put an arm around my wife or pull her into my side. My first instinct is to give her space and go check my phone.
I thought I was being respectful. Truth is, I just didn't want to face the fact that my wife looked more alive standing next to another man than she had in months standing next to me. The jazz quartet shifts into a slow number, something with too much sax and not enough backbone. I'm at the bar trying to unclench my jaw.
She's just dancing. It's Megan's birthday. Don't be that guy. I'm halfway through that lie when I see him take her hand.
Evan steps in like it's the most natural thing in the world and leads Kristen to the center of the floor. First, it's nothing. Two people sway. Her hand on his shoulder, his on her waist.
Something married people do with other married people without thinking twice. Then I see the details. His fingers settle lower on her back. Her head tilts toward his shoulder like she's done it a thousand times.
He says something against her ear. She laughs, really laughs, the kind that used to be mine. Her body softens into his, weight shifting, trust given. I put my drink down and walk toward them.
My heart's in my throat, but my face is calm. Half the town is there. Friends, co-workers, my mother somewhere behind me. This is not where I lose it.
"Kristen," I say, just loud enough for them to hear. She turns, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy from the drinks. "Tom, what?" "We should go," I tell her.
"It's late. We have Olivia in the morning." I'm giving her an off-ramp, one last easy exit. She doesn't take it. Instead, she pulls back from me, but not from him.
"You're being a killjoy," she announces, loud enough for the band to wobble. "God, can you stop trying to control me for one night?" A couple of heads turn. "Kristen, I'm not."
"You never make me feel alive," she cuts in, voice rising. "All you do is work and lecture. For once, I'm having fun, and you want to drag me home like a child." She presses herself closer into Evan as she says it, like she's proving a point with her body.