19 Myths About Cheating: A Novella Read online

  “You bet I can.” I lifted the plate of hot food and dumped it at his feet. And then I walked out.

  On the drive to pick up the kids at Judith’s house, I tried all those techniques that were supposed to calm one down. Deep breathing. Counting to twenty. Listing my blessings. I parked a few doors from Judith’s house and sat. My nasty fit clogged my chest with shame. How the hell did I let myself fly so out of control?

  Sympathy from Judith would swamp me with tears. I reminded myself to keep my mouth shut.

  “Cup of coffee? Adult conversation? Stay a bit?” Judith asked upon my entrance.

  “Did your perfect husband desert you?” If I were an animal, Judith would smell my anger. Of course, being Judith, she’d sense my crackling aura soon enough anyway.

  “He’s at some meeting for Democrats in Action. You know us. I manage our inner lives, and Marty watches out for the larger world.”

  Did she have a clue how lucky she was to sound so wry and loving? Jealousy shot through me, and then I was jealous of being jealous.

  “Are you ever jealous of Adam and me?”

  “Jealous?” She looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “Like how sometimes you see a couple do a certain little thing, like they’re walking out the door and you see his hand on the small of her back as they leave? And it looks so protective and warm, you get a little ping of jealousy?”

  “Are you and Adam having problems?”

  “Does a shrink always have to answer a question with a question?” I searched for a way to change the topic before Judith prodded till she found my soft spot.

  “Ignore me,” I said. “If I were any more pre-menstrual, I’d rip off Adam’s head and then cry as I held the bloody stump in my lap. I have a bad case of maudlin.”

  Judith nodded in sympathy. “Let me wrap up some carrot cake to take home. You need something sweet and loaded with butter. Hide it from Adam.”

  Sometimes my sister-in-law was so kind, it just about killed me.

  The house was dark and still. Molly held the container filled with carrot cake, while I fumbled to fit my key in the door.

  “Jeez, Mom, why isn’t the light on?” she asked. “Hurry. I have to call Lisbeth.”

  “I’m doing the best I can.”

  Finally, the key connected with the tumbler and we were in the house.

  “Henry, upstairs. Pajamas on and teeth brushed.”

  He nodded, sleepy.

  Adam sat in the same chair, but the rug was wet and scrubbed. So, he had moved.

  “We’re home,” I announced.

  “I see.”

  “Judith sends her love.”

  “Got it.”

  Adam clutched Business Week. If I could sense his mood earlier, now it wrapped me like a dirty shawl.

  “We have to talk,” I said.

  “Throwing a plate is always a good conversation opener.”

  “I don’t know what got into me. I think I’m getting my period.” I knew that was cheap.

  He didn’t respond.

  “What I did was inexcusable.”

  He stared at the magazine.

  “This won’t help. You can’t pretend I’m not here.”

  “Drop it, okay? I’m finally calm.” He held up a dark drink on the rocks.

  “I want to apologize. And explain.”

  I touched his shoulder, which remained rigid like a shelf for my hand.

  “I’m not in the mood.” He raised his glass, the motion conveniently slipping off my hand.

  I dropped the conversation. “I’m going to bed.”

  He tilted his magazine back up.

  I left the room, detouring to the kitchen for a glass of wine. In the bedroom, I stripped off my clothes, threw them in a heap on the floor, climbed under the covers and pulled the blankets into a nest. The appalling image of Adam sitting with chicken stew at his feet interspersed with my dread at seeing Guy the following day.

  I put the empty glass on the nightstand, picked up the remote and clicked on the news.

  10

  Myth: Cheating means having sex with someone

  other than your partner.

  Truth: Many affairs don’t involve sex,

  and sometimes affairs continue emotionally

  after the sex ends.

  Icy wind bit at my face as I stood outside the café Guy had chosen, located on the slightly less upscale end of Newbury Street.Walking there, I shopped my way from Arlington Street to almost Mass Avenue, scorching my Visa in a high-income version of contrition buying unneeded crap for my family. Shopping bag handles bit my palms.

  Guy’s office was three blocks away. He’d begged me to come and now he dared to be late? Three minutes and my waiting window closed. Wind tears froze on my cheeks.

  I checked my watch for the hundredth time. One more minute.

  Friday traffic meant a hellish ride home. Judith, Marty and the kids were coming for dinner with Charlotte in tow.

  “Deep in thought?”

  I looked up. Guy stared with melting eyes. “Sorry. Phone meeting.”

  I twisted my head so his kiss landed on my chin. I kept a chaste distance as we walked into the café. The place, all dark, depressing wood, was almost empty. I took the first table in my path.

  “So,” he said. “Here we are.”

  “I have 45 minutes.”

  “We’ll order something quick.” He studied the menu for a moment. “French onion soup. Croissants. This feels like a French moment.”

  “Just coffee for me.”

  French moment? With every word, more Guy glitter fell from my eyes. I stared at his face, his shoulders, and his Irish rock star hair—searching for the appeal that pushed me to this stupid moment and found only a cocky man cheating on his wife.

  “Fine. Coffee.” He covered my hand with his. “Must we?”

  I edged my hand out. Nothing glimmered. No desire shot through me. “We must.”

  “I’m miserable.”

  I nodded in a way I hoped expressed nothing but acknowledgement that he breathed.

  “Bereft.” He leaned his lips on laced fingers. “The word makes sense now.”

  “For God’s sake, we didn’t have a wartime romance. Is this what you wanted? To let me know you’re depressed?”

  “I wanted to say goodbye the right way.” He gestured around the dark restaurant. “This fit the bill.”

  Looking around the run-down café, I agreed. Turn the lights off; we’re finished. The atmosphere and food reeked of triste, empty except for the few students reading books as they slowly spooned up soup. At seventeen I would have found the setting arty.

  “Did you pick this place to ensure a miserable time?” I asked.

  “I wanted to make you regretful enough to miss me.”

  I peered over my coffee cup and laughed at Guy’s attempt at making our sordid tryst into a heart-rending doomed romance.

  He smiled, finally looking more Guy and less foreign film. “Okay. Maybe you won’t.” He brushed my cheek with the back of his hand. “You won’t miss me a bit?”

  I put down the saltshaker, now smudged from me turning and rubbing the glass with my thumb. “Pulling off heartbreak might work if I hadn’t met Kate. And the kids.”

  “Adoring my family doesn’t negate being crazy about you. How do I replace you as my best friend? I can tell you anything.”

  “Stop the best friend bullshit. We’re not soul mates. You can tell me anything because we’re not married. Our tête-à-têtes are only play-talk.”

  “Maybe we connected in an alternate universe, but you matter.”

  “Don’t keep hope alive, Guy. We’re done.”

  “We can still be friends.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Why would I be joking?”

  I wanted escape from this conversation and him. I rummaged my brain and the answer he’d accept became obvious. “We couldn’t be friends without sex eventually coming up.”

  �
�I understand.” This time when he slid his hand across the table, I allowed his touch.

  Ego always worked.

  He paid for the coffee. We left the restaurant. Wind blew my scarf around, forcing the fringe into my mouth. The wool tasted bitter and thick.

  “Here.” He caught the flying wool, wrapped it firmly around my neck and tucked the end into my coat. Placing both hands on my upper arms, he kissed my right cheek and then the left. French.

  “Goodbye, Isabelle,” he said. “I’ll always be a little bit in love with you.”

  His hands rested on my shoulders. Great gobs of relief at this finality softened me enough that I suffered his kiss. Traffic sounded. Passing conversations drifted. Resolution infused our last touch.

  “Mom?”

  “Dad! What are you doing?”

  Molly and Lisbeth faced us—dark and light reminders of Adam and Kate.

  His daughter ran away first. Molly stared for a moment and then followed.

  “Wait,” I called. “It’s not what you think.”

  She stopped, looked at me for a moment, and continued down the street.

  “Shit.” Guy slammed his fist into the lamppost.

  I hated him. I hated me more.

  11

  Myth: Once a cheater, always a cheater.

  Truth: While some cheat repeatedly,

  many affairs are a one-time thing.

  What happens after the affair determines the future of a marriage.

  “Go away,” Molly shouted through her closed door.

  “We need to talk.” I entered her room.

  “Leave!” She lay holding a floppy stuffed Dalmatian that Grandpa Leon had given her at age five. She heaved the dog on the floor and wrenched away when I sat on the bed and touched her arm.

  “Molly, I’m so sorry.”

  “For what? Me seeing you?”

  “For hurting you.”

  “Hurting me? You disgust me. You’re just a. . .” She twisted, sobbing. Again, I tried touching her. She rolled away until she reached the wall, keeping her back to me. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Daddy.” Tears and sarcasm laced her voice.

  “Talking to Daddy isn’t what this is about.”

  “Sure.”

  “Everything will be okay. I never meant—”

  “Get out of my room,” she shrieked.

  I sat staring at her back, feeling her push me away. “We’ll talk later.”

  The room spun as I collapsed on my bed. I had to call off dinner with the family.

  “Don’t be a coward.” Greta’s lecture hadn’t been my goal in calling her.

  “A coward?”

  “Haul yourself up. For Molly.”

  “Molly doesn’t even want to look at me.”

  “Too bad for you. You’re her mother. Don’t let her lie there alone while you nurse a pretend-flu. Think. What would your mother do?”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Answer.”

  I conjured walking in on my mother and my best friend’s father holding hands. Not difficult to imagine.

  “She’d pretend nothing happened and avoid me for a few days.”

  “There’s your answer. Do the opposite. Don’t be a coward. Be Molly’s mother.”

  “Molly, come down,” I called up the stairs. “Everyone’s here.”

  I unbuttoned the cuffs of my white oxford and rolled up the sleeves. Dead air filled the house. Adam had gone straight to our bedroom without a word when he came home with Henry, then headed to sulk in front of the TV. Plate throwing had a long life.

  Molly walked downstairs emphatically ignoring me. “Come to my room,” she said to her cousins.

  “Remember when we couldn’t get rid of them?” Marty put up his nose and sniffed. “What smells good?”

  “Lasagna,” I answered.

  “Is that good for Adam?” Charlotte’s brow furrowed.

  “Adam’s cholesterol is uber-normal. Will you please stop with the worrying?”

  Judith sent me a furtive eye roll.

  “What were his latest numbers?” Charlotte asked me.

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  Marty plucked a carrot from the salad bowl. “Anyone care about my cholesterol?”

  “Not before dinner.” Judith gave him a wifely shove toward the family room.

  “Go. Watch the news with Adam.”

  “Is Marty okay?” Charlotte asked. “Is his cholesterol okay?”

  “Mom, stop. He was teasing. He doesn’t have a problem.”

  “How about you?” Charlotte wrinkled her forehead as she peered at Judith.

  Judith obviously sensed distress. Everyone’s emotional temperature registered with my sister-in-law. She looked at Adam, me, Molly, and back to Adam, obviously seeing our distance and the trouble waiting to rise.

  “Good pie,” Judith said. “Where did you get it?”

  “Rosie’s.”

  “Everything they sell at that bakery is filled with butter and cream! I would never buy any of their stuff. Don’t even think of shopping there.” Charlotte stared at Judith’s midriff. “You can’t afford the calories or fat.”

  “Mom doesn’t worry about that. She just does whatever she thinks is right.” Molly’s odd remark fell like mud on a white tablecloth.

  “Use respect with your mother,” Adam said. “Nothing excuses rudeness.”

  Molly’s face crumpled and she ran out.

  As I rose, Adam shook his head. “Leave it. I’ll go.” He took his napkin off his lap, folded it in four perfect quarters, and stood.

  “You guys are worn out.” Marty stood and pushed his chair under the table. “Us too. Time to call it a night.”

  “I’ll help clean up.” Charlotte began stacking plates. “Adam can drive me home.”

  Adam walked over and put his hands on her shoulders. “Marty and Judith will drive you home.”

  In moments, Henry and I were alone, him looking to me for direction.

  “How about you watch a movie, honey? I want to talk to Daddy.”

  He widened his eyes. “It’s almost eight o’clock.”

  Offered such unprecedented freedom from our schedule, Henry rushed off.

  Sweat dampened my hairline. I found a long bobby pin in the junk drawer, twisted my hair into a rough bun, and carried the dirty dishes to the kitchen. Molly and I had pushed our uneaten food into lasagna Rorschachs. Adam’s plate could be wrapped and served the next day just as it was. I threw everything down the disposal.

  After wiping my wet hands on the tail of my now untucked white shirt, I peeked in on Henry. He slept on the couch, unwashed, unbrushed, unpajamaed.

  Upstairs, sobs came through Molly’s closed door.

  “Not now.” Adam’s muffled voice came through the door when I knocked. “I’ll be out soon.”

  When Adam entered the bedroom, I lay on top of the covers, staring at the television.

  “Shut it off,” he said.

  I pointed the remote and clicked.

  He walked to the window and began talking with his back to me.

  “I can’t believe you, Isabelle. I simply cannot fucking believe you.” He didn’t shout. Parenthood necessitated noiseless hate. Fury crossed the room like rubber bullets.

  I remained still.

  “I don’t even know you.” Adam spoke in a low, awful tone. “I thought I knew you, but I was so fucking wrong. Maybe I didn’t thank you every time you cooked a damned piece of chicken, but I didn’t fuck someone and break your heart.” He took a few ragged breaths. “Was I so horrible that I deserved this?”

  He sat at the edge of the bed and held his head in his hands. I put my hand on his back and for one moment he accepted my touch. “I’m so sorry, Adam. It was over weeks ago. Molly saw us after we had coffee. There’s nothing I can say.”

  He shook off my hand. Unmasked hostility distorted his face. “There’s plenty to say. It was over? How long was it on? What the hell did you think, bringing us to your boyfriend’s house
for a party?” Adam clenched his fist. “Sick. Fucking sick.”

  “I know.” I squeaked out barely audible words. “Molly wanted to go so badly.”

  “That party wasn’t a command performance. What’s wrong with you? How do you think Kate Peretta felt, knowing you came? That was obscene.”

  “Kate?”

  He paced back to the window. “How do you think I felt when she called?”

  “When who called?”

  “Kate, of course.” He shook his head. “You thought Molly told me? Jesus. She’s terrified. She would have taken your crappy little secret to the grave. She begged me to forgive you, to stay here.”

  “Kate called?” I whispered. I tugged my locket back and forth on the chain.

  “Her daughter worried Molly might keep quiet. Even during her own agony, Kate realized someone should look out for her.”

  Adam stared, but I had nothing.

  “Her daughter told her everything. Kate’s devastated it happened again.” He offered a nasty smile.

  I remained a statue. Guy’s screwing six women or six hundred didn’t matter.

  “Did you think he chose you as his first and only?”

  “We’re important. Not him. He was nothing. It ended before it began. I love you. Listen. Please—”

  Adam held out his hand as though stopping traffic. “Who cares when you ended? You started. I don’t even want to look at you.”

  “But Molly? What did she say? How is she? What did you say?”

  “Be a mother and find out. I’m going to check on Henry.” He went to the door and then turned before leaving. “Why’d you kill us, Isabelle?”

  “Molly?” I knocked. “Can I come in?”

  She didn’t answer.

  I knocked harder. “Please open up.”

  Eyes red and swollen, hair matted, she opened the door and turned away. “Do whatever you want. You will anyway.”

  Her room was too neat: books aligned like bricks, spines pushed out evenly in the bookcase. Only pens, paper and her computer were visible on her stripped-clean desk. No jeans or shirts were strewn around. No damp towels. The neatness reeked of disturbance.