Chapter 8: The Name He Couldn't Explain Away
Julian looked up at me from the edge of the guest bed.
He didn't ask how I knew the name.
That told me everything.
"It's not what you think," he said.
"You don't know what I think."
"Nora—"
"Three months ago," I said.
"A restaurant.
She's in the background of a photo she posted.
You're standing right there."
He stood up.
"We ran into each other.
It wasn't planned."
"And the fishing weekend?"
"I told you.
She was there with someone else."
"She was there with the group you chose to spend four days with while I was home alone with our daughters," I said.
"A woman you have been running into for at least three months.
And you said nothing."
"Because there was nothing to say."
"Then why is your face doing that?"
He turned away.
Walked to the window.
The same window, the same posture as the night before — back to me, hands at his sides.
"I like talking to her," he said.
It came out quietly.
Like he hadn't meant to say it out loud.
The room didn't change.
The light was the same.
My hands were still at my sides.
"Say that again," I said.
He turned around.
"I'm not saying anything happened.
I'm saying — she's easy to talk to.
She doesn't look at me like I've failed her.
She doesn't—" He stopped.
"She doesn't look tired," I said.
"She doesn't have spit-up on her shirt.
She doesn't ask you to wash bottles."
He didn't answer.
"I have been awake for six months, Julian," I said.
"I have been feeding and washing and holding and soothing and running on nothing, and you have been finding it easier to talk to a woman who doesn't need anything from you."
"That's not fair."
"You keep saying things aren't fair," I said.
"But you're the one who left.
You're the one who chose the trip.
You're the one who sat across a table from her and thought about how easy it felt and then came home and told me nothing happened as if that's the only thing that counts."
He sat back down on the bed.
His shoulders dropped.
"I don't know how we got here," he said.
"I do," I said.
"We got here because every time something got hard, you looked for somewhere easier to be.
You did it with Dana.
You're doing it now.
The only difference is that this time there are two little girls at your mother's house who need their father to be someone who stays."
He looked up at that.
"Don't use the girls against me."
"I'm not using them against you," I said.
"I'm telling you what's at stake.
There's a difference."
He was quiet for a long time.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked.
"Tell me specifically.
Not the letter, not the lawyer — tell me right now, standing here, what you need me to do."
I looked at him.
"I need you to call Kristen," I said.
"Today.
I need you to tell her that you won't be seeing her again, in any context, and I need you to do it where I can hear you."
He blinked.
"You want to be in the room."
"Yes."
"That's—" He stopped himself.
Started again.
"Okay."
"And then," I said, "I need you to call your mother and ask her if we can come and get the girls together.
Both of us.
Today."
Something shifted in his face.
"Together," he said.
"Together.
Because whatever happens next between you and me, those girls need to see their parents in the same room choosing them.
That part isn't negotiable."
He nodded slowly.
"And after that?" he asked.
"After that," I said, "we find out whether you mean what you say or whether you're just good at saying it."
He reached for his phone on the nightstand.
Held it for a moment.
"I'm going to make the call," he said.
"And then I want to earn the rest."
He dialed.
I stood in the doorway and listened.
When Kristen answered, Julian said her name once.
Then he said: "I need to be honest with you about something.
And I need to be honest with my wife.
This has to stop."
The call lasted four minutes.
When it ended, he set the phone on the bed and looked at me.
I didn't say anything.
I walked to the bedroom, picked up my own phone, and called his mother.
"We're coming to get the girls," I said.
"Both of us."
May you like
She was quiet for just a moment.
Then: "I'll put the kettle on."
