Returning to Boston was like stepping out of a dream. I was groggy, disoriented, and confused. The life I knew had been completely upended. I was in my house, with my husband, at my job, in my office, with my coworkers, and yet, I felt like a stranger. Thoughts of you consumed me. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I lost eight pounds in the first week I was home. Nothing was suffering on the outside, I got up, made coffee, packed lunch for Robert and me, I went to work, I got shit done, like I always do, but on the inside I was panicked, I was frantic. After over a week of being gone I had a lot to catch up on, I was thankful for the work and the distraction. New manuscripts had come in, old manuscripts had been sent back. I was rocking and rolling like I always had, but I was lost.

You texted me two days later. “I miss you. I miss your body. I miss your lips.” I was at work, knee-deep in a new manuscript from a young author writing about their life as a child in New Orleans after Katrina, I was interested and I thought it had potential. I tried to ignore you, I made it three minutes before I responded. “I can’t handle this. I can’t stop thinking about you. I need to see you.” I had a conference in Savannah the following week. You agreed to meet me there. I booked my flight, extending the stay through the weekend. I went home and told Robert I’d be gone from Wednesday until Sunday night. He didn’t even question it. It was so easy, the lie, the excuse, I was shocked at how simple it was. I don’t know what you told Madison; I didn’t care. I spent two nights in Savannah alone, listening to industry execs speak about finding young talent, cultivating young authors, I was distracted, I learned nothing. The conference ended at 3:30 on Friday and your flight didn’t arrive until 8:47. I checked into the hotel alone, I booked a different hotel in the even that someone from the conference had also stayed on for an extended weekend. I didn’t give your name or leave a key for you at the front desk. I was flying under the radar and I was paranoid. I went to the hotel gym and ran for an hour on the treadmill. I showered. I changed clothes fifteen times and I waited.

At 9:30 there was a knock at the door. I looked through the peep-hole and saw you standing there. I opened the door, stood to one side and let you in. I shut the door behind us, turned the lock and closed the safety latch. You turned to face me; my back was against the door. Without a word, you embraced my face with both hands and kissed me. We spent forever at the door, kissing, sighing, loving, your hands moved across my shoulders and pulled the sweater I was wearing to the floor. I felt my hands slip under your shirt and began to lift it off your body. I pulled it up and over your head. We stood there, me in my dress and you half-naked, just touching, just admiring, not speaking. “You’re here” I whispered, “I’m here” you affirmed. We spent forever at that door, slowly sinking to the ground in the entryway, pulling at each other’s clothes, undressing each other on the patterned carpet, your bag still at our feet, my discarded sweater in a mound underneath, your shirt somewhere.

We didn’t speak for the rest of the night, but somehow made it from the floor to the bed. I have never known anyone like you. You were insatiable. You were constant. I did things with you I didn’t know were possible. That night transcended prior experience, movies, romance novels; I was completely unfettered and untethered. I let myself go and gave into you. For two days we didn’t leave the room. We didn’t explore Savannah, we didn’t eat a restaurant, we didn’t go to a bar, we didn’t walk hand in hand along the water front as I had imagined, there were no moments of us embracing and kissing in front of a store, of us holding hands across a table as we shared dessert. We ordered room service when we were hungry and ate in bed. We showered together when we felt dirty or just compelled to feel the hot water on our skin. I had brought so many outfits with me; I didn’t need any of them.

Our flights left Sunday night around six in the evening. We shared a cab to the airport. We stood in line for security together, you were holding my hand. You walked me to my gate. I left 45 minutes before you did. We were in the same terminal. We stood there as they boarded my zone, and I didn’t go. I stood there with you, head pressed into your chest, crying, gripping your shirt in both hands, sobbing. I had to go; I was the last person to board the plane and the gate agent was annoyed with me. I released you slowly, kissed you one last time and walked away. I turned to look back at you as I entered the jet bridge, I turned to look again as I was halfway down it, you were there, at the entrance, watching me leave. I turned one last time before I boarded the plane, but the bend in the walkway obscured you from view. I boarded the flight, found my seat in First Class and as we pulled out, I saw you, standing at the window, I pushed my hand against the window. I felt so hopeless. I was leaving you and leaving us. I was going back to reality and my husband, I couldn’t and didn’t imagine a future for us but I needed you to see me, sobbing at the window, hand on the glass, heartbroken and torn; to this day I have no idea if you did or could see me.

This was our existence, for almost year. We capitalized on conferences and work meetings. We both had jobs that required travel. We both had spouses that didn’t question us. We both made things up when we had to and escaped to places like Fort Lauderdale or Denver or Grand Rapids, where ever the wind and the airlines would take us. We saw each other at least once a month, sometimes more. Always different cities and always different reasons; I was meeting a new, potential client, you were attending a conference on something related to construction. Every trip was a new lie and a new adventure. Yet, every trip was the same. We didn’t leave our room. We didn’t explore the city. We ordered food when we were hungry, we showered when we felt dirty, we enjoyed each other in ways I didn’t know was possible, and we always cried when our time together was over. We had been together and apart for almost ten months. We had lied and cheated and cajoled our way through random cities and hotels. You sent me a picture once of my plane flying overhead, I replied, ” that’s the saddest sight I’ve ever seen.” We were always excited at the onset, depressed at the departure, and longing for more. I was completely lost and engrossed in this lie. I was drowning in guilt and yet devoid of remorse. I was, with all my being, in love with you. All I needed was for you to tell me to leave and I would be gone. I was so lost in you. I was, as Sandra Dee sang, hopelessly devoted to you. I was yours.

I don’t think people really understand the effort it takes to have an affair. It’s emotional. It’s taxing. It’s exhausting. You’re living a lie. Every day you have two lives, the one you know and the one you are hiding from everyone. I couldn’t talk to anyone about you. I felt isolated in my world and in my life. I had this huge secret I couldn’t share with anyone. It was eating away at me. I wanted to tell someone, anyone, I didn’t care. There were moments when I handed a five-dollar bill to a homeless person on the street and I wanted to grab him by the shirt collar and scream, “I’m having an affair with a man I am pretty sure I am love with and I don’t know what to do about it!” At home I strove to be the perfect wife. I cooked dinner. I talked idly about my day. I was engaged and present. At least as far as Robert could tell. I would be sitting across the table from Robert at dinner, listening to a story about his day at work, smiling and nodding at all the right places, but in my mind, I was with you. Sometimes I would be sitting there, listening to him and texting you. We’d watch television at night and my phone would buzz and it would be a text from you and I’d casually answer you and have this whole conversation while he sat there, next to me, on the couch. I had drinks with my best friend, but I couldn’t tell her about you. We laughed and talked about her kids, our jobs, our husbands, our woes, but never about you. I look back now and wonder if she knew. If somehow after all these years of friendship she had figured out there was something different, there was something up, but she never said a word and neither did I.

About ten months after this whirlwind romance began I had a conference in Phoenix. It was an entire week, Monday through Friday, but I decided I could fly in Friday night, even though the conference started Monday and stay through the following weekend. We could have ten days together. Somehow, you found a way. I don’t know what your excuse was, but Friday night you met me at the hotel in Jerome. My conference was actually in Sedona, about twenty miles from Jerome, it was a weird, 8:00 – 12:00 daily and then done style conference. There were options after lunch for spas or hikes with the group but I wasn’t interested, I didn’t sign up for anything that would take me away from you. We spent our time in Jerome alone. We stayed at the old haunted hotel that used to be the hospital; we ate at the Asylum, the hotel restaurant each night and took glasses of wine back to our room each night. We stayed up until the wee hours of morning laughing and joking about the elevator that ascended on its own and the ghosts that opened and closed the bathroom door each night. I went to work in the morning, exhausted but invigorated and met you for lunch for each day. We had almost ten days to ourselves. In that time, I came to know you. I mean, we couldn’t have sex all the time, so we actually talked. I learned all there was to know about. I knew your dreams. Your fears. Your aspirations. You called it twenty-one questions, which made me laugh, because I had always called it twenty-questions, and every night we just went back and forth asking each other the most random questions from what is your favorite color to what is your deepest desire. We both wanted a McLaren, although different models, we’re both afraid of falling, but not heights, we both love sushi, but you hated the how My Name is Earl, which I loved. At some point, I think it was Thursday, you and I decided that this was real. I loved you and you loved me. This wasn’t some lascivious tryst and we weren’t crazy, we were supposed to be together. We decided that night that we would tell Robert and Madison and that we would leave them. We knew it wouldn’t be easy. We knew there would be a whole lot of “paperwork” and bullshit, but we knew we had to do it. We created a plan. We spent the rest of the week hashing it out and making decisions. I owned most of everything in my life, I had been married before so I had started my life over and bought everything alone before Robert came into the picture. Robert came to me from a second marriage as well and was as dubious as I was about joint checking accounts and shared assets. My break would be easy compared to yours. You would have to deal with Madison and the alimony, she was a stay at home wife, she didn’t work. She had never been married before. You were all she knew. We knew you’d have to support her after you left. We knew we’d pay for this for the rest of our lives, but leaving Jerome and Arizona, we didn’t care, it was time for us to get on with our lives. We were going to work this out. We were going to be ok. We were going to be together.

It’s funny how easy things sound when you’re planning them out over wine, in bed, at two o’clock in the morning compared to the reality of actually coming home and saying it out loud. I got home, unpacked, packed lunches, and went to work on Monday. We hadn’t set a deadline, we hadn’t established a timeline for the departure from our current lives. I told myself, “just do it Friday, then you have the weekend to fight it out”, but Friday came and went, the weekend passed without incident and Robert and I attend a cookout at our neighbors and everything was as it should be. I hadn’t said a word to Robert because I hadn’t heard from you since we left each other’s arms in Arizona. Granted, this wasn’t the first time you had disappeared on me. Early disappearances had left me rejected and angry. I would start with innocuous texts like, “baby?”, “you there?”, “everything ok?”, but it was always radio silence on your end. It drove me wild with fear and doubt. I would lash out, I would attack you. I was so mad and so confused, I didn’t know what I had done to deserve being ignored. I’d send increasingly panicked texts and call at all hours of the night. Eventually though I ran out of steam, my resolve weakened and I convinced myself you weren’t in it like I was. And just when I had given up, just when I had gotten to the “to hell with you Thomas” part of the saga and was ready to let you go, you would reappear, always with an excuse, always saying how sorry you were, always drawing me back in. Work had been crazy, Madison had been too present, your phone died and you didn’t have a charger, you had a million excuses. I bought them all. After a few months, I stopped panicking when you disappeared, I stopped caring (oh the lies we tell ourselves), and I went straight to the “to hell with you Thomas” reaction and I didn’t try, I didn’t lash out, I didn’t text repeatedly. I told myself it’s over and that’s ok, it’s a good thing. It didn’t matter though, you always came back, and I always answered.

After Arizona you disappeared for almost three weeks and when you resurfaced neither of us mentioned our plan to leave our spouses. You just sent me a text that said, “I’m sorry love, things were crazy here”, and we moved on. I got texts from you in the next two months reminiscing about our time in Jerome, the fun we had, the nights we spent together, the ghosts, but we didn’t see each other. We didn’t plan other work trips to mask our escapes, we didn’t contemplate our departure from our current lives. You didn’t call me randomly on your lunch break to talk to me and you didn’t send me pictures of you at your desk. I felt like things were cooling down. I started preparing myself for the fact that this was an impossible dream, that this was a stupid teenage fantasy and that real-life would prevail and we were not meant to be together. I started to give up on you and I and accept that my life in Boston with Robert was the life I was meant to have. I tried to convince my daily that I wasn’t in love with you. That I didn’t care if you disappeared. I found myself despondent. I was drinking every night after work. Wine as I cooked dinner, Tito’s after work, sometimes beer if I was feeling responsible. I quit running. I quit going to the gym. I sat on my couch, drink close at hand and I stared at my phone, willing it to ring, willing you to text me. I was a hollow reminder of who I once was. I was a shell. And I hated you for it.

You sent me a text, it was after midnight, I was in bed, Robert snoring beside me, “I miss you. I want us to be together. In one week, it will be the one-year anniversary of us meeting. Can I see you?” I was proud of myself, I waited until almost noon the next day to respond, “where do you want to meet?”. “Meet me in New York City, I have a surprise for you.” I booked my flight that afternoon, you took care of the hotel. I would be seeing you in two days. I would be in your arms again. After two months of random texts, of not seeing you, of not knowing and of fretting, I was going to be away with you for three nights in the Big Apple. I was nervous. I was excited. I was all yours, drawn back in, again.