Chapter 6: Dinner for Two, Truth for One
He came home at ten past seven with a bottle of wine he'd stopped to buy, which told me he'd spent the drive home deciding to be charming.
He set it on the counter.
He asked about the kids.
He looked in the fridge and offered to make pasta, and I let him, because I wanted to watch him move around the kitchen like a man who believed he still had time.
The kids ate with us.
They talked about school.
He listened and laughed in the right places.
He was good at that — being present enough that no one would notice he was somewhere else entirely.
After dinner, after baths, after stories, after the lights went out in both rooms down the hall, we sat at the kitchen table with the wine he'd brought.
He poured two glasses.
"I've been thinking," he said.
"About what?"
"About us.
About whether there's a way through this that doesn't have to be — " he paused, choosing the word carefully — "permanent."
"You mean divorce."
"Yes."
"What kind of way through were you imagining?" I asked.
"Counseling.
A real effort.
I know I've hurt you.
I know I handled everything badly.
But ten years — the kids — I don't think we should throw that away without trying."
I looked at my glass.
"Where's the apartment, Daniel?" I said.
The color left his face.
"What apartment?" he said.
But his voice had gone flat.
"The one you signed a lease on four months ago." I looked up at him.
"The one in the manila envelope at the back of the bottom drawer."
He didn't move.
"I wasn't snooping," I said.
"I was looking for the insurance documents.
I found it by accident.
But I did read it.
And I did photograph it."
He put his glass down.
"That's not — that was a contingency.
In case things didn't work out."
"You signed a lease four months ago.
You've been seeing Diane for eight months.
You asked me for an open marriage on our anniversary." I kept my voice level.
"At what point in that timeline were you planning to tell me the truth?"
"I was going to — "
"When, Daniel?"
He pressed his lips together.
"Were you going to tell me at all?" I said.
"Or were you going to wait until you'd moved your money, signed your lease, and set up your new life — and then hand me papers and act like it came out of nowhere?"
"It wasn't like that."
"Then tell me what it was like."
He was quiet for a long moment.
The kitchen clock ticked.
Outside, a car passed.
"I didn't know how to leave," he said finally.
"I knew you'd be devastated.
I thought if I could get you to agree to the open marriage, it would make the transition easier.
For everyone."
"Easier for you," I said.
"For the kids too.
If we weren't fighting — "
"You were going to use my agreement as a way to walk out the door without a scene." I set my glass down.
"That's what this was."
He didn't deny it.
"I've already sent the lease to my lawyer," I said.
"Along with the brokerage statements.
And the emails."
His head came up.
"The brokerage statements — "
"Patricia thinks there may be more to look at there.
She's having a forensic accountant review them."
"There's nothing to find."
"Then you have nothing to worry about."
He stood up.
The chair scraped back hard.
"You're turning this into a war."
"I'm protecting myself and my children," I said.
"You had four months and a signed lease.
I've had forty-eight hours.
I'm catching up."
He walked out of the kitchen.
I heard the bedroom door close.
I sat at the table alone.
I finished my wine.
May you like
I washed both glasses and set them in the rack.
Then I went to the guest room, where I'd quietly moved my things that afternoon, and I closed the door behind me.
