Rachel again. Can we please talk? I know you're angry, but we need to discuss this like adults. I almost laughed like adults, as if she hadn't spent half a year acting like a teenager sneaking around behind her parents' back. But she was right about one thing.
We did need to talk, not for her reasons, for mine. I texted back, "Come by at 2 p.m., bring Marcus. " The three dots appeared immediately, disappeared, appeared again. Then why would I bring Marcus? Because this involves him. Because I want everyone at the table.
Because I'm done in with separate conversations and managed truths. 2 p.m. Both of you. The dots appeared and disappeared several more times before she finally replied. Okay.
I spent the morning preparing. Not emotionally. There was no preparing for that. But practically, I cleared the dining room table, set out three chairs, laid out three copies of the folder I'd assembled, made it look less like our home and more like a deposition room, clinical, official, the kind of space where comfortable lies die under harsh fluorescent truth. At 1:30, David arrived with sandwiches I wouldn't eat, and emotional support I desperately needed.
He looked through the folder while I stared out the window and I heard him swearing softly as he turned pages. This is James. This is really thorough. I had 14 days with nothing to do but think and investigate. The text messages, he said, holding up a printed page.
Did you see this one from July 23rd? I had I had seen them all, including the one he was looking at where Rachel told Marcus that I was safe but boring and that being with him made her feel alive again. That one had been particularly hard to read at 3:00 in the morning while she was swimming in the Caribbean with the man who made her feel alive. I saw it, I said simply. And you still want to do this face to face?
You could just file for divorce. Let the lawyers handle everything. I could, but I need to see his face when he realizes I know everything. I need to watch them try to explain this while sitting in the house they betrayed. I need I stop trying to find the right words.
I need to witness this, David. Not as revenge, as closure, as confirmation that I'm not crazy for feeling betrayed, that what happened actually happened the way I think it did. He nodded slowly. I get it. I'll stay if you want backup.
No, this needs to be just the three of us, but thank you. At exactly 2:00, Rachel's car pulled up. She sat in the driver's seat for a long moment before getting out. No, Marcus. She walked to the door alone, knocked softly even though she still had her keys, waited for me to let her in like a guest in her own home.
She looked terrible. Red eyes, no makeup, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Part of me, the part that had loved her for 12 years, wanted to comfort her. The rest of me remembered why she looked this way. "He's not coming," she said before I could ask.
"Marcus, he said this is between us, that he doesn't want to get in the middle of our marriage. " I almost smiled at that. That's convenient. Getting in the middle of our marriage was fine when it involved Caribbean vacations and midnight texts, but now that there's consequences, he's suddenly principled on about boundaries. He's scared, Rachel said quietly. You have to understand, James.