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.”
With that, she went into the bathroom.
I snapped. I was miserable before she announced her date, but that misery was my own doing. I deserved to be punished. But a date… that was too much. If she didn’t want to stay married, that was her choice. Maybe she thought I didn’t get a choice, but I did. I wasn’t going to have an open marriage. I wasn’t going to share my wife. I wouldn’t accept that the punishment for my cheating on her was for her to cheat on me. Maybe it sounds fair to other people, an eye for an eye and all that, but it wasn’t the same.
I grabbed my coat and backpack and went out. I drove down the street in the direction she drove to work and parked on a side street. Twenty minutes later, she drove by.
I returned to the apartment. I packed up my clothes and my gaming PC. In about six trips, my car was full, and I had everything of mine that wasn’t furniture. On impulse, I opened the refrigerator door, and I grabbed a six pack of summer ale. That would come in handy that night.
#
My parents were both working. I didn’t even call them to ask. I just moved into my old bedroom.
I explained things to them that night. My mom was on my side. That was her standard operating procedure. I loved her for it, but it wasn’t always helpful. My dad wasn’t an ‘us and them’ guy. He always made an effort to see both sides of a disagreement.
“You fucked up,” he told me, “You fucked up big time.”
“I know.”
He looked at the summer ale I was drinking.
“This isn’t a beer fuck-up. This is a scotch fuck-up.”
He got three tumblers out of the cabinet. My mom told him none for her, so he put one back. He opened a new bottle of Johnny Walker Black and filled both tumblers.
“This is the first and last alcohol you’re going to use to escape this problem. You’re going to drink it, and you’re going to be sad, but later tonight, or at the latest tomorrow, you’ve got to stop feeling bad for yourself and start doing something about it.”
“I’ve been trying to do that. I don’t know what to do.”
“Do you think she’s really out on a date?”
“I don’t know. I think so. She’s not a liar. She said she made plans with someone, and she wasn’t going to break them.”
“Yeah, but that could be true even if the guy was just a friend. Or maybe it’s not even a guy and she’s going out with a girlfriend.”
“I don’t know… I just don’t know. But I don’t think I care. It’s too much. I don’t deserve this.”
“You should care. If it’s a sham date, or no date at all, then it’s cruel, but it’s not cheating. I think you two can recover from that. If it’s a real date, and something happens… Well, it doesn’t matter that you cheated first, she’ll be a cheater, and you’ll have to decide if you can stay married to her.”
We didn’t say much after that. I slugged down the scotch and went to my bedroom. I tried not to think about what my dad meant when he said ‘if something happens.’
#
At 11:45PM, I got a text from Debbie.
“Where are you?”
I didn’t want to tell her, not yet, so I answered with a question.
“Where are you?”
“I’m home”
“Are you alone?”
I don’t know why I asked that. I didn’t really think she’d bring someone to our apartment, so obviously I was just lashing out at her. It probably would have been better if I stayed civil.
“Grow up,” she replied.
I didn’t respond. She sent another message.
“Are you going to answer me? Where are you?”
“I’m home.”
“No, you’re not. I’m here.”
“I don’t live there anymore. I moved to my parent’s house.”
I shut my phone off and tried to go to sleep. It took me hours.
In the morning, I turned on my phone to find Debbie had left about a dozen messages. They were mostly angry rants. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t provide any details about her date, not who she was with, where they went, what they did. Her messages didn’t make anything worse, but they didn’t make anything better. They were useless noise to me.
My mom was in the kitchen when I went downstairs. My dad had left for his usual early Saturday morning tee time, nine holes with his best friend Mike. Mom just gave me a hug and offered me an omelet. I ate it and went back to my room.