I'm going on a date with David tomorrow. Everything changes if she leaves tomorrow. The wrench slipped from my greasy fingers as those words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. I was under the hood of my 1998 Mustang at 11:30 on a Tuesday night, trying to fix the radiator leak that had been plaguing me for weeks when my wife Megan dropped her little bombshell. I'm going on a date with a coworker tomorrow night, Jack.
If you can't handle it, that's your problem. I straightened up slowly, wiping my hands on an old shop rag. The garage light cast harsh shadows across her face, making her look like a stranger. After 15 years of marriage, maybe that's exactly what she was. "A date?" I repeated, my voice flat as a flattened tire on Route 9.
That's right. She stood there in her silk pajamas, arms crossed, chin tilted up in that defiant way that used to make me crazy with desire. Now it just made me tired. We've talked about this. Our marriage is stagnant.
We need to explore other options. Had we talked about this? I searched my memory like a computer running diagnostics. Sure, we'd discussed our problems, the growing distance, the lack of intimacy, her new job at Hartwell Corporation consuming more and more of her time, but I didn't remember agreeing to turn our marriage into some kind of open relationship experiment. "And if I can't handle it," I asked, setting the wrench down on my workbench with deliberate care.
She shrugged, a gesture so casual it might have been discussing the weather. "Then maybe you need to grow up, Jack. This is the 21st century. People have needs. I looked at her for a long moment.
Really looked at her. The woman I'd met in college. The one who used to laugh at my terrible jokes and steal my hoodies. The one who'd cried happy tears when I'd finally scraped together enough money to buy this house in Milbrook Heights. When had she become this cold, calculating stranger?
If you walk out that door tomorrow night, I said quietly. Everything changes. That's not a threat, Megan. It's a forecast. She laughed.
Actually laughed like I'd told her the punchline to some hilarious joke. Oh, Jack, you're so dramatic. What are you going to do? Change the locks? File for divorce?
You don't have the spine for it? With that, she turned and walked back into the house, her silk pajamas rustling like autumn leaves. I stood there in the garage, surrounded by the familiar smell of motor oil and old concrete, and felt something shift inside my chest. Something that had been bending for years finally snapped. You don't have the spine for it.
We'd see about that. I finished with the Mustang around midnight, my hands moving on autopilot while my mind churned. Megan was already asleep when I came inside, or at least pretending to be. I stood in the doorway of our bedroom, watching her breathe in the darkness, and wondered when we'd started sleeping on opposite sides of a king-size bed, like we were afraid of catching something from each other. The next morning played out like a scene from some twisted domestic drama.
Megan hummed while she made her coffee. Actually hummed like she was getting ready for Christmas morning instead of cheating on her husband. Our daughter Emily was home from state for spring break and she sat at the kitchen table scrolling through her phone with the practiced indifference of a 20-year-old who'd rather be anywhere else. "Morning, Dad," Emily mumbled without looking up from her screen. Morning, sweetheart.
I poured myself coffee and tried to act normal, whatever that meant anymore. How'd you sleep? Fine. Still not looking up. Mom told me she's going out tonight.
I glanced at Megan, who was applying lipstick using her phone's camera as a mirror. Did she now? It's just dinner, Megan said, her tone breezy as a spring morning with Nathan from work. You remember Nathan, don't you? He was at the Christmas party.
Nathan, I did remember him, actually. Tall, good-looking in that generic corporate way with perfectly styled hair and a smile that belonged on a toothpaste commercial. He'd spent most of the Christmas party talking about his BMW and his condo downtown. I'd pegged him as a tool within 5 minutes of meeting him. "Right," I said.
"Nathan." Emily finally looked up from her phone, her eyes moving between her mother and me like she was watching a tennis match. "Are you okay with this, Dad?" The question hung in the air like smoke. Megan paused in her lipstick application, waiting for my answer. This was my chance to make a scene to play the role of the outraged husband. Instead, I smiled.
Your mother's a grown woman, Em. She can make her own choices. Megan blinked, clearly surprised by my calm response. She'd been expecting a fight, maybe even hoping for one, something to justify what she was about to do. "Well," she said, snapping her compact shut.
"Good. I'm glad we're all being mature about this." "Mature, right." I went to work that morning at Milbrook Tech Solutions, the IT consulting firm where I'd been grinding away for the past 8 years. My boss, Rick, was a decent guy who mostly left me alone as long as I kept the clients happy. I spent the day troubleshooting network problems and installing security software, but my mind kept drifting back to Nathan's perfect smile and Megan's silk pajamas. Around 3:00, I made a decision that would change everything.