Heather, our court-ordered marriage counselor, asked me what emotions I felt after I cheated on my wife.
“Guilt. Shame. Regret. Fear,” I said, then paused before adding, “And sadness.”
“Say more about the fear. What made you afraid?”
“I was afraid Debbie would find out and she would leave me.”
“But she didn’t, did she?”
“No, not exactly.”
#
I met Debbie at a beach party the summer before my senior year of college. She was with her cousin Patrick, a friend I’d known for years. Sparks were flying from the moment we were introduced, or they were for me, anyway. She was beautiful, and that helped to make a good first impression, but she was also friendly, and funny, and easy-going, and–surprise, surprise–she seemed interested in me. Somehow, I managed to ask her for a date, and we went out half a dozen times before we both went back to school, her to UNH and me to Boston College.
We kept in touch during the fall, mostly through text messages but a few phone calls, too. We tried to get together at Thanksgiving, but her family made plans at the last minute to spend the weekend at her older sister’s home in Maine and that deep-sixed our plans. We postponed our next date to the first Friday of our winter break. I couldn’t wait.
In early December, I got some unexpected bad news. A guy I knew from high school who was going to UNH, Tim Morris, told me that he’d seen Debbie out with some guy at a bar in Dover and it looked like a date to him.
I was floored. We never discussed being exclusive, and we had only dated half a dozen times, but I thought she felt the way that I did, and I had zero interest in dating anyone else. I had never experienced it before, so I couldn’t say for sure, but I thought I was in love with her. I knew she probably wasn’t in love with me but staring reality in the face really hurt. It didn’t help that she didn’t hint around that we were both free to see other people. It left me open to the knife in the back feeling I got when Tim told me about her and the other guy.
Our winter break date was a double with Patrick and his girlfriend Sue. I put on my brave face and tried to act like I was having fun. I wasn’t. I was waiting for the end of the night when the couples would go separate ways so I could have a face-to-face talk with Debbie and find out where I stood with her.
“John, you’ve been distracted all night,” she said. “Is something wrong?”
“Yeah, I guess there is. A friend of mine saw you on a date and … I don’t know, it surprised me. I thought we were a thing.”
“A thing, huh? Well, I guess we were, and I hope we still are, a thing, but we never talked about being exclusive. I assumed you were dating, and I did go on some dates.”
I was glad she didn’t lie, but I didn’t know how to respond. Should I tell her that she was the one for me, the only one for me, and I never wanted to date anyone else for as long as I lived? Clingy, much?
We were sitting on a couch in her parent’s living room. She moved closer to me, held my arm, and laid her head on my shoulder.
“Do you want us to be exclusive?” she asked me.
“More than anything.”
“Good. I do, too.”
And that was it, the official beginning of our commitment to each other. We sealed it a few minutes later by making love on that couch, half under a blanket and each with one ear listening for someone in her family coming down the stairs.
#
Making love with Debbie was perfect. There was enough variety to keep things interesting, but no sexual gymnastics were required and there was no pressure on me to be some super stud. I loved her, and I wanted to please her, and I felt the same from her. Maybe because our first position was cowgirl on the couch, that was my favorite. I loved to look in her eyes as she rode me, the look in her eyes getting more and more focused and intense as she sought out the best angle and the right speed to make herself cum.
We were making love in that position the first time we said ‘I love you’ to each other. I’ll never forget that moment.
She said, “I love you, and I love this.”
I said, “I love you more.”
Maybe I was right.
#
Maybe I was wrong, too. I certainly blew everything to hell by acting like I didn’t love her.
Three years after we got married, I was working at a small startup company. The founders secured our first big funding round and about a dozen of us went out to celebrate. The funding meant the runway was about twelve months long and if we played our cards right, eighteen months. It was a big, big deal.
Julie Townshend, our QA engineer, invited her friend, Emma Nolan, to come meet us. Emma was my downfall. She just oozed sex appeal, and she knew it and used it. For some reason, she aimed that sex appeal at me. By the end of the night, everyone else had left and we were alone together in a booth. I should never have let that happen. I was a little loose, but I wasn’t drunk. I can’t use that as an excuse.
She asked me to walk her out to her car. I had to do it. It wasn’t a rough neighborhood, but it wasn’t Disney World, either, and escorting her was the right thing to do.
When we got to her car, she pulled me in close to give me what I thought would be a ‘thank you’ kiss on the cheek. It wasn’t. Three minutes later we were rutting in her back seat like a couple of teenagers. Her legs were wrapped around me, and her hips moved against me as I thrust into her, and she begged me to keep fucking her. And I did.
I can’t tell you much about Emma. She had short brown hair and a tight little body. Where did she grow up? Where did she work? What music did she like? I had no clue. There was certainly no love between us. The only real attraction between us was physical. Maybe I would have liked her if we got to know each other better. As soon as she drove away, I didn’t want to know her better. I wanted to forget her. Guilt and shame were descending on me, and I started to feel sick. I was a stupid prick and I had betrayed the woman I loved.
#
For the next two weeks, I wrestled with what to do. If I told Debbie, she’d probably leave me, and while I could claim I’d been honest about my adultery, I’d do that by transferring some of the pain to her. If I didn’t tell her, I’d be denying her the chance to decide if she wanted to stay with her miserable cheating asshole husband.
As it happened, Debbie found out even though I didn’t tell her. Emma got an attack of conscience and showed up at our door. I wasn’t home. I learned later that Emma kept it short.
“Hi. You must be Debbie. I’m Emma. I had sex with your husband two weeks ago. I thought you should know. Sorry.”
I got home at about 7:30 that night. I knew something was wrong as soon as I stepped in the door. Debbie was sitting in the living room of our apartment. She had a glass of wine. Her body seemed rigid, and she glared at me.
“Sit over there,” she commanded, pointing at a chair across from her.
“What’s wrong?”
“Shut up and sit there.”
I put my backpack down and sat. ‘She knows,’ I thought, ‘Fucking hell, she knows.’
“Your little friend Emma came by earlier. Is there something you need to tell me?”
I told her what happened, glossing over the sex details. When I finished the story and started to plead for forgiveness, she interrupted me.
“I don’t want to hear your bullshit! I’m going in the bedroom. Don’t bother me. Sleep on the couch, or sleep in the car, or go home to your parent’s house, but don’t you fucking dare come in the bedroom.”
I sat in the chair as she rose and walked towards the bedroom.
“And get tested for STDs, asshole.”
It was a nightmare, but there were some rays of hope. She didn’t tell me to leave. She didn’t mention divorce.
#
The next three weeks were miserable.
I slept on the couch the first two nights. It had less than six feet of flat cushions, and I’m six foot two inches tall. It was too soft. I woke up sore every morning. We had a second bedroom that I used as an office. The couch was so bad that I decided to sleep on the office floor in a sleeping bag.
Debbie wouldn’t talk to me, and she hardly looked at me. A couple mornings, I got a glimpse of her face, and I could see that she’d been crying. I felt like shit, and I know I deserved it.
One night, I decided to push forward. Nothing was getting decided or resolved the way things were.
“We have to talk,” I said to her, “Are we done? Should I move out?”
“We’ll talk when I’m ready,” she snapped back at me. “If you want to move out, don’t let me stop you.”
“I don’t want to move out. I love you. I want to know how to fix it.”
“I told you we’ll talk when I’m ready,” she replied as she closed the door to the bedroom.
On the next Wednesday night, she was ready to talk. I was in the office. She stood in the doorway.
“I don’t want you to be blind-sided so I am telling you now. I have a date Friday night.”
She walked away from the door. I hurried out of the room, but I didn’t catch her before she was in the bedroom with the door closed.
I raised my voice to make sure she heard me through the door.
“You’re going on a fucking date? Is that what you said?”
“Yes. Go away.”
“What the fuck, Debbie! Are we married, or not?”
“Good question, asshole. Should I ask Emma?”
I didn’t know what to say. I fell back against the wall outside the bedroom door and slid to the floor. My only hope was the date was a ruse, something she’d pretend to do to punish me more than she had been doing already.
I tried to talk to her Thursday morning, again Thursday night, and finally, on Friday morning. She didn’t even answer me on Thursday. On Friday morning, I pleaded with her.
“Don’t go on a date. It’s not the same thing. I was stupid, I’m the reason everything is fucked up between us, but it wasn’t deliberate. I love you. Don’t do this. Don’t go on a date.”
“I’m going. You need to know how it feels to be betrayed, and I need to get out and have some fun.”
“Go out with your friends. Don’t go on a date. It will make it worse. We’ll both feel worse, not just me. Don’t you see? I’m guilty now, but if you go out, you’ll be guilty, too.”
“I’ve made up my mind, and I’m going. I made plans with someone, and I’m not going to cancel just because you can dish it out, but you can’t take it.”