I stood there, dumbfounded, the notes I had been holding fell to the floor. “Mrs. West?” “I’m here, sorry, I don’t have the appointment on my calendar. Tell her I’ll be down in five minutes.” I picked up the fallen notes, went to my private bathroom and checked my make-up and outfit. I looked composed, but my hands were shaking and my heart was racing in my chest. “No good can come of this” I thought as I walked to our reception area and lobby. Madison was not the dumpy or plain woman I remembered from the cruise. She was wearing a smart black pantsuit with a crisp white blouse. Her hair was stylish. Her make-up was expertly done and she had lost at least forty pounds. I smiled at her, “Madison”, it came out like a question. She rose, didn’t speak, “this way, can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Water?” I was rambling and mumbling, barely enunciating my words and each word running into the next. She had the upper hand and from her cool demeanor, she knew it. She followed me silently down the hallway and the elevator. The ride up three floors lasted forever in the silence. I resisted the urge to make small talk, I knew what her arrival meant, we were busted. Something we had discussed in great detail over the course of our affair. What would we do when either Madison or Robert found out, what was our game plan and our exit strategy. You had always told me that when the time came you would tell her the truth and admit that you were in love with me and that you would then let the chips fall as they would. In hindsight, I realize this wasn’t a declaration that you would leave her, in hindsight, I realize this was your way of saying, “I’ll come clean, but what happens next will be entirely up to her.” The fact that she was here, instead of you, was telling. She had found out, somehow, and rather than telling me, rather than leaving her, you stayed and now here she was, eighty-four days post your disappearance, to what purpose I had yet to figure out. Was she going to tell me she knew? Was she going to scream at me in the office? Was she suing me? I had heard that was possible, that an estranged spouse, a victim of an extramarital affair sometimes sued the offending party for damages and sometimes they won. My mind was contemplating every possible scenario at breakneck speed. I was dizzy from the thoughts that kept colliding and rearranging in my head. What was she doing here? What was about to happen?

I opened my office door and stepped aside to allow her in. She walked by me and moved to the left. I walked to the right, coming to stop beside my desk, but not behind it, I wanted to put some space between us but I didn’t want to look like I was hiding. “Ma…”, we spoke at the same time, “Thomas is dead.” I stopped mid-Madison, mouth hanging wide open, eyes widening, breath catching. “Car accident, on the way to the airport, a truck jack-knifed and he couldn’t stop in time.” I moved, or rather lurched behind my desk and fell into my chair, dumbstruck and in shock. This couldn’t be true. This was a cruel game she was playing. She was punishing me. “I don’t believe you”, to this day I can’t believe that was my response to a grieving widow whose husband I had been having an affair with for over a year, but there it was, out in the open. “It’s true”, she pulled a newspaper clipping from her purse and set it in front of me on my desk. Local Businessman and Philanthropist Dies in 16 Car Pile-up on I-285. Thomas was a philanthropist? How had I not known that? What else didn’t I know? He’s dead? What the fuck is going on? I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think and couldn’t stop thinking. I sat there, staring at the article, hands shaking, brow sweating, disbelieving. I almost forgot Madison was there, standing over me, staring at me. I looked up.

She was watching me. I couldn’t read her expression. I was so intimidated by her at this point and so heartbroken for her at the same time. My first thought was to get up and hug her, to tell her how sorry I was for her loss, to just hold her and let her cry. I must have moved to stand or speak because she said, “don’t, just, don’t. I thought I lost everything that day. My world ended and came crashing down around me. I lived for weeks in a fog, I barely remember the funeral or the weeks after, but as the veil lifted, as I came back to the world I began tying up loose ends. Imagine my surprise when I learned that one of those loose ends was you.” “Madison, I, we, I…” I sounded like an idiot, I had no words for her, I felt ambushed. Not only was the widow of my lover in my office, not only was she standing before telling me she knew what we had done, she had just delivered to me the news that Thomas Hunter, the man I had come to consider the love of my life, was dead. That he had been dead, for 84 days. It hit me, all of a sudden, the reality of it, I started sobbing, I put my head down and my face in hands and just let it go. I had spent 84 days getting over you. I had spent 84 days feeling rejected and angry and confused. I should have known. I should have figured this out. I shouldn’t have spent so much time hating a man who didn’t choose to leave me. She let me cry, for how long, I don’t know. When I finally looked up I half expected her to be gone from my office, but she was still there, sitting now in one of the two chairs I kept in front of my desk. Still composed, hands clasped on her lap, still watching me with a cold and calculated stare.

“Are you done?” It was so callous, she was seething, I could see that now. Her composure was an illusion, this was a woman scorned. She had been able to prepare for this since his death. Her emotions mirrored mine in the opposite direction, first grief and now anger, I was only getting to grief in this moment and had wasted over two months on anger. I was only truly feeling the loss of you now. What I had felt before, what I had thought was loss, was nothing compared to the emptiness that filled my entire being. I had always thought that you would turn up again, on some idle Tuesday afternoon, months down the road, I would get a text from you, “hey baby. I’m sorry, life has been crazy” and we’d pick up right where we left off. The reality that you were gone from this world and my arms forever was not something I had imagined or entertained and it was not something I was prepared to deal with. “Lana?” I snapped back to the present. “Yes.” “Don’t you want to know how I found out about you?” She was baiting me. I didn’t want to know, I didn’t care. You were dead. What did any of this matter now? Why couldn’t she just leave me to my grief? I said nothing but met her gaze. “It started with his phone, there was only one text from him to you, he must have been meticulous in clearing his history, he must have been so cautious, but he didn’t erase that last text before he crashed, and then you texted the next day, and called.” I tried to remember the last text you ever sent me. You had told me you loved me, that you couldn’t wait to see me and hold me in your arms again. I had deleted it. I had deleted everything. My heart broke again as I realized I had nothing to remember you by, unless she left the newspaper article which had a ridiculous headshot of you at the bottom of the article, grainy, black and white, fake, but it was better than nothing. I looked at it now and fresh tears started flowing. “You loved him, didn’t you?” I nodded stupidly. I did love you. I loved you so much. I used to send you these videos in the morning, I knew you couldn’t watch with sound so I used sign language, I learned it just for that purpose. I’d lay in bed, sleepy eyed, hair askew, and I’d sign “I love you. V.S.V.T.”, which stood for Very Simply. Very True.” It was my ‘thing’ for you. It started the first month we met. I wrote you a letter and I signed it, “I love you, very simply, very true, L.” It stuck after that and was my way of telling you how much you meant to me. You never said it back to me, you had other ‘things’ for me that let me know how much you loved me, but that was mine and I meant it, more and more with every passing day and with every breath I took.

“I didn’t even get his phone for two weeks after the accident, they returned it with the rest of the things that had been in car, it was dead, I don’t know why but I put it on the charger.” This was happening, I was going to have to sit here and listen to her tell me about her days following your death and I didn’t think I could handle it. I wanted to scream at her, “stop, just stop, I can’t take this, just let me be, just let me grieve” but I knew this was what I deserved. I knew that no matter how badly it hurt, I was going to have to hear her out. “It took me a few days to get into it, he had changed his passcode, probably to hide what he was doing. He had changed all his passwords, email, Facebook, I couldn’t access anything, he was so good at covering his tracks.” Was she insinuating you were an expert at this? Was this not your first affair? Had I been one of many? God this was painful. “The phone company couldn’t unlock the phone for me. Apple could only reset it, and everything would be lost. It took me a week but I finally was able to trick the face recognition with a photograph. I felt so clever and so shocked that it had worked, but it did. And there it was. His secret life, available to me for the first time in all our years together.” Again, she made you sound like a veteran adulterer; had there been others? Was this a lifetime of infidelity and was I simply one of many in a long line of affairs? “Your number wasn’t saved under a name, but the message was clear. I knew in that moment he died going to see you. He died on his way to cheat on me, with you.” She let that statement linger, hanging there between us, she wanted me to know it was my fault you were dead. That if I hadn’t pulled you away from your home and your wife that you would still be alive. If I hadn’t agreed to meet you in New York City, you would still be here. I hung my head, in sorrow, in shame, in regret. I had never felt so small, I had never felt so defeated. “Then there was this.” I looked up, she was holding a key, it was small and gold, a safe deposit box key. “I went to the bank in New York but without the second key they wouldn’t open it, even though he was dead and I had this key. They said the other key belonged to a Lana West, but that you had never picked it up.” I hadn’t picked it up because I hadn’t known about it. Was this the surprise? Had you gone to New York prior to that fateful weekend and planned this out? Why hadn’t the bank called me? “I don’t know what is in it, there is a clause, that even with the death of one party, if the other party lives, no one else can access it.” “I didn’t know about the safe deposit box Madison, I don’t have the other key, they weren’t lying, he never told me about it.” “I’ve debated for weeks coming here, I didn’t know what good it would do and what it would accomplish, but in the end, I wanted you to know that I knew. In the end I felt you deserved to know he was dead.” I didn’t know what to say. Should I thank her? It sounded so hollow in my mind, gee Madison, I really appreciate you taking the time to deliver this news in person, thanks. So, I just sat there, dying inside and wishing this was over, wishing she would leave so I could crawl onto the floor, curl up in a ball and cry for hours. “I honestly don’t know what is worse Lana, that he had an affair with you, or that he loved you. You took everything from me. Well, his death took everything from me and then you took what little was left. I don’t even have a memory of my husband that I can recall without seeing the lies.” I felt horrible. I was crushed by the weight of this admission and the guilt that came with it but also by the fact that you were gone, really gone, forever, I had never known a despair and an emptiness as profound as what I felt in that moment.

Madison stood and made to leave. She turned back to face me, “I won’t destroy your life like you destroyed mine. I won’t tell Robert, but I think you should. Having experienced this from the perspective of a spouse betrayed, the kindest thing you could do would be to tell him.” She turned away, walked out of my office, closed the door quietly behind her and disappeared. I sat at my desk until after ten o’clock. I held the newspaper article she had left in my hands and sobbed, I laid my head on the hard, cold oak and sobbed, I wrapped my arms around my body and pulled my feet under me and as I cried I rocked myself back and forth in the chair like a child. I cried until I had nothing left in me. I cried until my eyes were so swollen that I couldn’t see. I finally got up, went to the bathroom to splash water on my face, collected my belongings, put the newspaper article in my desk drawer, changed my mind and slipped it into my purse, and as I reached for the desk lamp I noticed the tiny, gold key sitting on the corner of my desk. She had left the safe deposit box key in my possession, I picked it up and put it in my purse. I turned out the light, left my office, hailed a cab and went home.

The next few days were a blur. I called in sick to work the following day. I didn’t get out of bed. I told Robert I had a migraine. After he left I got up and opened a bottle of wine. I started drinking at around seven in the morning, as soon as I heard his car leave the driveway. I curled up on the couch, wine in hand, and pulled the newspaper article from my purse. I stared at your picture. You looked like a staged version of yourself. Hair perfectly styled, not carefree and messy like I remembered. Your smile wasn’t the easy going, haphazard, lopsided grin, but a carefully crafted, big tooth smile that said, “I’m posing”. It was a semblance of you, but not the you I knew, not the you I loved. In my anger and despair, I had deleted every picture, every text, every memory of you, from my phone and my own memory and now all I had left was this newspaper photo that hurt my soul to look at. Robert came home at six as always, I didn’t have dinner made, I had retreated back to the bedroom and pretended to sleep. He was leaving on Friday for a work retreat that would take him away for the next five nights. I sent an email to work saying I needed the week off for a family matter. I’m pretty sure I stayed in bed for those five days. I kept the newspaper article under my pillow when I wasn’t looking at it. My hands were blackened from the ink, the picture was faded and distorted from my tears and my fingers. I actually had rubbed a hole in the article where I had held it so much. I couldn’t imagine a world without you. I had tried. For almost two months my world had not included you, but I still imagined you out there, living, going about your day to day as I did mine, I never imagined you were gone. I never imagined that there wouldn’t be a text one day or a call, I never imagined that I would never see you again. I never imagined a hurt and a grief this deep. I never imagined that I would feel so empty, so hollowed out, and so struck by depression that I couldn’t get out of bed. I didn’t shower for days. I didn’t eat. I didn’t drink. When Robert came home on Thursday afternoon he was shocked by my appearance and being, he wanted to take me to the hospital, he was convinced I had some rare version of the flu and that I needed immediate help. I burst into tears and I told him the truth. I didn’t want to. It just came pouring out of me.

I told him everything about us. How we met. How much I had loved you. All the times we were together. All the secret rendezvouses. That you were dead. I probably talked for an hour, just rambling, manic, incoherent. I realize now I wasn’t repentant. I wasn’t begging for forgiveness. I just needed to get it all out. I needed to tell someone. I had lived for so long with this secret and now this secret was killing me and I had to let it out. His calm surprised me. He listened, for as long as it took, then he stood up from the bed and without a word collected his unpacked suitcase and left. I never saw him again. I was served with divorce papers a few weeks later in my office. He wasn’t being vindictive. If I sold the house and the rest of the assets we could split everything 50/50 and go our separate ways. I signed them without hiring a lawyer of my own and put the house on the market that evening. I moved into a small loft apartment in Hyde Park. He had left the cats with me and the place was too small for us. Two weeks later I put in for a transfer to our Seattle office and was granted it. I moved from Boston, the life I had known for years across the country. I look back now and know I was trying to put as much space between me and what we had done as I possibly could.

Life in Seattle was good for me. The atmosphere is a weird gloomy all the time, which matched my mood, but was good for my soul. I lived in an area called Capitol Hill, I had a cute three bedroom, two and half bath brick house on a quiet, shaded street. I ran through my neighborhood in the evenings, I mowed my lawn, I tended a little garden I had planted. At night I settled onto my couch with a glass of wine to watch television or a movie on Netflix, my cats curled up at my feet and my favorite chenille blanket covering me. At first, I missed you and cried for you daily. I would pull the tattered newspaper article from the book I kept it in and cry clutching it. Eventually that urge passed. I could go days without thinking about you, without mourning you. I would actually find myself surprised on a random Sunday afternoon that I hadn’t thought of you or cried over you in a week. Each day, each month, it got easier. I knew that I would never forget you, but I knew that I was healing.

Slowly I came to accept that you had opened something in me I didn’t know existed. You had shown me a world of possibilities and you had shown me a love that I had never known before. I came to appreciate the opportunity you presented me and I learned to embrace the me that emerged from the other side. I know I will never love anyone like I loved you, but I know that you were a gateway to a world I didn’t know was possible. You gave me hope for a life I didn’t know was possible.

Almost a year after Madison visited me in Boston I had a meeting in New York City. I brought with me the gold key she had left on my desk. I didn’t know if I would actually visit the bank, but I wanted to keep the possibility open. On my last day in New York I found myself standing in front of Chase Bank on Wall Street. I entered and asked to speak to a manager. When I was seated in his plush office I explained who I was, the situation and presented the small key I had been holding onto for a year. He disappeared for a few minutes and returned with an envelope that held my key, with both keys in hand I allowed myself to be walked to the vault and shown the safe deposit box you had opened for us. The manager took both keys, opened the door, removed the box and beckoned me to follow him down the hall to a private room. I stood for ages in front of the small, metal box before I opened it.

I lifted the lid. The box contained two items. A small velvet box and a white envelope. I picked up the envelope first, held it in my hands and then turned it over. On the front it read, “Lana”, I recognized your handwriting immediately. It shocked my soul, I felt tears welling in my eyes. I was so afraid of what it said. I picked up the velvet box and opened it. In it was a simple white gold band, thin, feminine. I opened the envelope, inside was a folded letter a photo of us you had taken in Sedona on your phone.

Lana,

My love. I had a dream last night and it terrified me. We were on a boat, the boat you hope to retire on, and the seas were rough. We tossed and turned all night, and when I awoke you were gone. I searched high and low, but I couldn’t find you. I knew you were gone. Your loss broke me. I realized in that moment, upon waking, dream lingering, that if something ever happened to you or to me, no one would ever know our story. Would we lay awake at night wondering what had happened? Would we always be haunted by what had happened that the other simply disappeared? Would you spend your life questioning my affection and my devotion to you? I needed to find a way to reach you. I needed to make sure that should anything happen to me or to you, we would we would know. I was hoping to make this our secret repository when you met in me NYC, but I also realized that life is short and unpredictable, so I set it up months ago just in case. I am leaving Madison, I plan on telling her as soon as I return from this trip. I cannot live a lie anymore, it isn’t fair to her, to me, or to you. I only hope that when we meet in NYC that you will agree to leave Robert for me. I can longer imagine or live a life without you. I want to marry you and I want to spend my days growing old with you, even if you forget where your keys are and leave your purse in the fridge. I will find them for you and I will remind you to wear pants when leaving the house. I am in this for the long haul and I will love you for as long as you let me. As a gesture of my good faith I bought you a wedding band. I didn’t buy an engagement ring. I want to take you to Tiffany for that and I want you to pick out the biggest, gaudiest, diamond in the store, even though I know you won’t. But this band, this is my promise, my testament to our love, this is forever, if you’ll have me. I love you Lana West and I am so grateful that I met you. You have shown me what true love is and you are my future. I will see you soon.

I love you. Very Simply. Very True.

Thomas

I collapsed, right there at the Chase Bank on Wall Street. I sat there on the floor, holding your letter and the ring box and all of the feelings, all of the hurt, all of the despair I thought I was over came flooding back. Tears flowed freely. You loved me. You died loving me. You wanted to make a life with me. I felt validated and I felt empty. I took the letter and the ring and I left both keys sitting on the counter. I left Chase Bank and New York City and returned to Seattle.

Getting back to reality, life, and work in Seattle after my trip to New York was easier than I had anticipated. I toyed with the idea of wearing the ring, but couldn’t bring myself to wear it out of the house. I would wear it when I got home and to bed and then take it off each morning before showering and I would leave it on the counter until I got home. I set your picture on the coffee table and would pick it up every day when I got home. Sometimes I would kiss it. Sometimes I would cry. But the emptiness I felt after learning about your death, the hollow feeling I had lived with when you disappeared, those didn’t return. In the wake of these feelings was a dull ache, a subtle, throbbing pulse of remorse and regret that pulled at the back of my mind, but didn’t haunt me. I could sleep at night, I found joy in my everyday life, I ran, I lived my life. I didn’t forget you, but I knew I had moved on.

On the two-year anniversary of your death I had a meeting in Cleveland. Your hometown and gravesite were only an hour outside of the city. I rented a car and drove to the cemetery you were laid to rest in, I had found this information on Google. I wondered if I had just looked harder, if I would have found the news of your death on Google as well. I didn’t dwell on this thought. The cemetery was beautiful in that odd, serene way that graveyards often are. Hilly, green, tree lined. I drove through the gate and parked. I wanted to walk. I wandered for a bit. You always joked that I was a wanderer, that I traveled through life, just taking it all in and relishing in the splendor of the world around me, so I wandered, turning this way and that, believing I would eventually find you. You were laid to rest on top of a hill, a giant maple stood guard, the leaves had changed, the land was resplendent with the colors of autumn, red, gold, yellow, orange, lingering green, and imposing browns. Your headstone was simple, grey granite, Thomas Hunter, 1977-2019. I knelt in front of it and cleared the leaves from your grave. I wiped my hand across the top of the marker to remove any dust I imagined had settled there. I pulled the grass that had sprung up tall around you and had been missed by the last landscaper. I knelt in front of you and for the first time in almost three years I felt something let go. I had brought with me a single white rose, I laid it in front of your gravestone. I sat back on my heels and I told you about my life since you had been gone. I told you about Madison’s visit, about telling Robert, about moving to Seattle, I talked to you for over an hour. As I finished my story and rose to leave, the cold having seized my joints, my knees uncooperative, I put my hand on your tombstone to help me up. I stood and continued to stand there, hands upon that cold granite, heart heavy, white rose at my feet. The day had passed and it was growing dark, the air was cold and warned of snow. I pulled from my pocket your letter and the ring and set them on top of your marker. I bent and kissed your name and whispered “I love you, I always will.” As I turned to leave the snow began to fall. I walked down the path to my car and I didn’t look back.

I hate to feel desperate.
I hate to feel weak.
I hate to feel ignored and
I hate to feel discarded.

I hate pretending to smile.
I hate faking a good mood.
I hate acting happy when I’m not and
I hate going on with my life like nothing is wrong.

I hate the power you have over me.
I hate that you consume me.
I hate that you permeate every thought and
I hate every song that reminds me of you.

I hate how powerless I feel.
I hate how I cling to hope.
I hate how I make wishes on teenage superstitions and
I hate giving you the benefit of the doubt.

I hate that I still want you.
I hate that I still need you.
I hate that I still love you and
I hate that I still trust you.

I hate that I don’t hate you.
I hate that I won’t quit you.
I hate that I can’t let you go and
I hate that I know I’ll come back,
When and if you ever do.

My darling Thomas,

You’ve disappeared, again, the last text I got from you was over a week ago. You told me you loved me and then you vanished. I’ve reached out to you daily, I’ve questioned your disappearance, your motives, your mindset, but I haven’t gotten an answer. We’ve been down this road before. It’s not the first time you’ve gone silent. Each time you eventually come back, apologetic, loving, promising you won’t do it again. Each time I believe you. Each time I let you back in and I fall in love all over again.

In the interim, I’m left to my own thoughts and my own paranoia that something is terribly wrong. I’m left to wonder and worry about where you are, why you’ve quit speaking to me, and what I’ve done this time to deserve this treatment. I resist the urge to text you and call you, I resist the urge to lash out and react. I resist the urge because I am so afraid of pushing you away. I’m so afraid of doing something that will make you resent me or hate me and endanger the chance of you coming back to me at some point. So, I sit here and find ways to occupy my mind and my soul so that I stop checking my phone and I stop fretting and I stop pacing.

You see, I don’t have anyone I can talk to about you. You are my darkest and best kept secret. You are hidden from the world I live in and you are the only person other than me that knows what we are doing. When you disappear into your world you leave me alone in mine without a friend and without a partner. You leave me to cry into my pillow and make excuses for my bad mood. I can’t tell my best friend how worried I am. I can’t tell my husband why I am crying in the kitchen as I cook dinner. I can’t explain to my coworkers why I’m not overly talkative or excited about the donuts in the kitchen. I can’t tell a single other person why I feel so raw and emotional and empty. I have to carry this alone. I suppose in a way I deserve this. I got myself into this mess and I have to deal with the consequences of my actions, yet I can’t help being angry because I got into this mess with you. I entered into this affair believing I had a partner and a confidant and a lover who would support me and be there for me when I needed him.

I need you to know what your disappearances do to me. I need you to know how utterly hopeless and heartbroken I feel. How despondent I become. I need you to understand that when you disappear, when you won’t just tell me what is going on, when you leave, you leave me more alone than I think you comprehend. Yes, I have friends, and family, and a husband. I have a life that doesn’t include you. But this life, this isn’t a life that can know about you. This suffering is something I have to face alone. This pain is something I cannot share or reconcile with anyone else but you. I don’t think you understand that. I think you imagine me going on with my life, getting on with my day, just moving along until you call again, but it doesn’t work that way. I can’t not worry. I can’t not miss you. I can’t just accept the silence and not knowing without worry and suffering. I can’t not love you.

I go to bed each night hoping I’ll wake to a message from you. I say a prayer each morning that I’ll hear from you at lunch. I curse myself each afternoon and vow to let you go. It’s a vicious cycle and I am struggling to manage it. I hold on because I love you. I hold on because I believe in you and in us, but it takes its toll and it breaks me down a bit more each passing day. Maybe one day I’ll be able to share this with you. Maybe one day you will understand. Maybe one day I’ll find my strength and just move on. Maybe. Hopefully. Someday I will let you go. Today is not that day.

I love you. I miss you. I’m waiting.

Lana

I left the office at two o’clock, hailing a cab for Logan outside of my office for a six o’clock flight. I was early, but I was antsy and on edge. I hadn’t seen you in over two months. I hadn’t felt your touch, I hadn’t heard you breathe “I love you” into my ear. I wanted to know what the surprise was. Were you finally leaving Madison? Had you bought me something? We didn’t have the type of relationship that involved gifts or mementos, things that would get us caught. We existed in a perpetual state of nonexistence, always deleting texts, always swiping left on messages, I know we both saved a few pictures, hidden deeply, tucked away for safe keeping, for late nights, lonely mornings, nostalgic moments. The way to make an affair work was to leave no evidence. To leave no proof. There was nothing in my world, or so I thought that could tie me to you. We were not friends on Facebook or Instagram. I didn’t follow you on Twitter, I wasn’t even sure if you had Twitter. Outside of the tiny microcosm we had created, population of two, we didn’t exist. I was overwrought with anticipation as I entered the airport and cleared security. I found a seat by the window of an airport bar and ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio. I didn’t eat. I couldn’t eat. I just sat and drank and waited for my plane to be called. You sent me a text around four, “I’m on my way to the airport. I’ll see you soon darling. I love you. So much. I can’t wait to hold you in my arms again.” That was the last time I ever heard from you.

I arrived in New York City at seven. The flight from Boston was only about an hour. I hailed a cab and headed to the Crowne Plaza in Times Square. I knew you weren’t as cautious as I was and that my name would be on the reservation so that I could check in when I arrived. I checked in without incident and ordered two bottles of wine to be sent to the room. I went upstairs and changed into black lace lingerie I had purchased on a whim after Arizona. Looking back now I realized I had bought it to wear on the night we were finally together as a couple and not as a secret, to celebrate our “coming clean” and starting our life together. It was supposed to be my surprise to you to celebrate our first night of freedom. I didn’t hear from you, but I knew your flight had landed at JFK. I waited. Nine o’clock, then ten, then eleven, came and went. I sat on the bed. I was drunk, having finished both bottles of the wine I had ordered for us. I turned my phone off and on to make sure it wasn’t the issue. I texted you, “baby? I’m waiting.” At midnight I called you but went straight to voicemail. At some point I finally fell asleep, on top of the covers, wine glass in hand, the last sip spilling onto the duvet and my leg, the tv on for distraction.

I awoke with a jolt around six in the morning, hungover, head pounding and stomach churning. I ran to the bathroom and threw up. It was nothing but bile and undigested white wine. I was thankful I hadn’t eaten anything the day before. I checked my phone. I had a message from Robert asking if I had gotten in and complaining that the cat had thrown up a hair ball on the couch, but there was nothing from you. I called your phone again and again I went straight to voicemail. “You’ve reached Thomas Hunter, you know what to do.” I didn’t leave a message.

I took off the lingerie and put on a pair of workout pants and a t-shirt. I wasn’t going for a run, but I didn’t have anything else comfortable to wear and I felt ridiculous walking around a lonely hotel suite in a negligée. I sat down on the bed, a rage of emotions. I pulled the pillow up to my face and screamed into it. I punched it repeatedly, cussing, at me, at you, at life. I called myself stupid and pathetic. I texted you again, “are you ok? What’s going on? I’m worried sick!” Nothing. Thirty minutes later I texted again, “Thomas, seriously, what the hell?” Where are you?” And thirty minutes after that, “what the fuck is your problem? Who the hell do you think you are? Fuck you Thomas!” I started crying, I mean ugly crying, sobbing into my hands, horrible choking sounds coming from my body, my nose running, spitting as I gasped for air, I caught sight of myself in the mirror above the dresser and didn’t recognize the woman looking back at me. Red, face contorted in anger and pain, snot running from her nose, hair standing up at all angles. I started laughing at the stranger across the room from me. Quietly at first, then a huge guffaw erupted from me and I couldn’t stop. I laughed and cried so hard that my ribs hurt for days after. I finally exhausted myself and I curled up into a ball at the bottom of the bed and I slept.

It was after four when I woke up. Spent. Empty. Hungry. I picked up the phone to call room service or maybe you, but deciding I couldn’t spend another moment in the room alone, I got up instead, took a shower, packed my bags and hailed a cab back to La Guardia. I was able to get on a flight leaving New York at ten, I texted Robert, told him the meeting hadn’t gone well and the client wasn’t going to pan out and that I was coming home. I sat in the airport, staring at my phone, willing it to ring, praying you would call me or text me. I paced the terminal. I threw up again. I went home.

The Lyft driver pulled into our driveway around midnight. I gathered my bags and made my way up the driveway to our front door. Halfway up the walk I changed directions and headed for the backyard. I didn’t smoke, I hadn’t in years, but I knew Robert kept a secret stash hidden in the grill. He thought I didn’t know, we both decided to quit when we got married, but I knew he hadn’t. I had found lighters in his pants pockets, cigarette butts in the yard, I knew the smell of stale smoke on clothing and I knew you couldn’t smoke inside in Boston, so I knew, he still smoked. I set my bags down on the patio, found what I was searching for, went to the outside bar and grabbed a bottle of beer. I sat on the back deck until two in the morning. Smoking Robert’s cigarettes, drinking his beer, and reevaluating my life. After a few beers I had made up my mind. I was done with you. I was over this. There had been so many slights over the past year, but this was unforgivable. I had rearranged my life for you. I had lied to my husband. I had been a part of you lying to your wife. I had lived for a year, wracked with guilt, constantly paranoid, and yet so head over heels in love with you that I didn’t care. I had become a master of excuses, telling myself that what we were doing was acceptable because it was true love. That what we were doing wasn’t wrong because what we had found in each other was real. I turned us into the victims, two people in loveless relationships, unhappy and unappreciated, miserable in our lives, fighting for something that would lift that veil and lead to happily ever after. At two in the morning, on the eve of our one-year anniversary I ran out of excuses.

Sunday was a manic blur. I unpacked, I went for a run, the first time I had run in almost two months. I punished myself, pushing myself to run hard and far. I came home and deleted your number from my phone. I deleted every picture I had saved of you and of us. I wiped you from my life, but I couldn’t erase you from my mind. I played it out in my head over and over again, sometimes I would imagine getting a text from you and ignoring it. I’d set deadlines, “if he texts me on Monday, I’ll text him back on Wednesday, let him see how it feels to be ignored.” “If he texts me, I’ll respond and say, I’m sorry, I don’t have this number stored in my phone. Who is this?” I did this for weeks. Different scenarios, different responses. I ran each morning, sweating out the hate and the hurt I felt. I went to work. I jumped every time my phone rang or buzzed. I’d close my eyes and pray, “please be Thomas”, but it never was. I tried stalking you and Madison on Facebook, but both of your accounts were private and I could only see your profile pictures. I resisted the urge to Google you. The days stretched on. The nights were longer. I didn’t sleep, I was barely eating, my nutrition came from wine or Tito’s. Robert noticed a change. At first, he was understanding, trying to figure out what was wrong with me, but after about two weeks of my zombie-like existence he became angry. We fought about my drinking, we fought about my lack of interest in our life, the lack of dinners, the lack of lunches, that lack of food in our refrigerator, the lack of sex, the fact that I didn’t speak when I was home, or shower on the weekends. Robert and I fought about everything and about nothing. My grand plan to erase you, to be done, to let you go, was an epic failure. You consumed me and I hated you for it.

As the days stretched into weeks and the weeks into a month the hurt started to subside. The pain I felt stopped haunting me every hour. I found myself laughing at shows on television, I went to the grocery store, I started cooking again and I stopped drinking. I was healing, it was a slow process, but I was getting there. I still sometimes cried myself to sleep at night, but it wasn’t every night. There were still times when I heard a song that reminded me of you and my heart skipped a beat. There were moments when I remembered the way your mouth felt on mine and my breath caught in my chest, but these moments were fading and I was regaining my life and my confidence. There were times when I wondered what you were doing, I imagined you going out to dinner and movie with Madison, smiling, laughing, holding her hand, I saw you at the grocery store, picking wine you liked or contemplating which steak to bring home, but it wasn’t every day. I was letting you go, I was moving on. It’s strange to me now, how this works, the pain, so sharp and piercing at first, so overwhelming that you can’t get out of bed or imagine taking one step toward the shower, so raw that your very being is shaken to it’s core, so strong that your body physically aches; how something that powerful can simply subside, can simply ebb like the tide and slowly disappear baffled me, but I was thankful. I had lived too long in your shadow. I had lived too long in this pain and rejection. I looked forward to the day you know longer haunted my dreams. I looked forward to the day you no longer existed.

I was at the office about a month and a half after you had stood me up in New York City, I was going over my notes from an early meeting with a new author we had recently signed when my administrative assistant buzzed me and said there was a Madison Hunter in the lobby. I stood there, frozen in place, my voice lost, “Mrs. West? Lana? Did you hear me? Madison Hunter is here, she says she has an appointment.”

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.

We strayed. From our spouses. From our lives. We let ourselves go and we let ourselves get wrapped up in a moment that wasn’t real. I fell into your lap for what felt like a millennia. In reality, it was ungraceful and clumsy and took less than two seconds. I more plopped than sat down. You and I both grunted with the force of my impact. It wasn’t sexy. It wasn’t like what you see in movies. Regardless, there I was, half in the sand, half on your lap, your hand in mine, my other hand hovering in the air like Ricky Bobby when he doesn’t know what to do with hands. You let go of my hand, and with both hands brushed my tangled hair away and embraced my face. I felt so small. Your hands spanned the length of my face, my cheeks, onto my temples, onto my neck, holding me. I met your gaze. Your eyes were grey that day, not the blue I had registered on the boat, still brooding and turning, still dangerous, but no longer blue. You leaned in, the tip of your nose grazed mine, “Lana West, you consume me” and with that you kissed me. I let it happen. My hands, once frozen in midair fell to my sides, I felt the soft sand on my knuckles. I felt the breath leave my body. I sighed. “Should I stop?” I answered you by kissing you back, leaning in deeply, wrapping my hands around your waist and pulling at your shirt. Grabbing handfuls of it into a tight fist and pulling it toward me. As your tongue brushed across mine, casually gracing my lips, I knew I was lost. I knew that whatever this was, I was in it. I should have felt ashamed. I should have felt regret. I should have stopped. I pulled you in closer.

We only had moments on that beach. The lunch was scheduled to last an hour. We wasted half of that on the walk to and from the cove. It was moments that live in my memory as years. I think of that beach and that kiss and that moment as a lifetime rather than a fleeting incident. We walked back to the cove, hand in hand, leaning on each other. As we parted the woods you let go of my hand and walked away from me to the boat. We rode back together, but not touching, not speaking. We were just two lonely travelers on the same excursion, nothing to see here folks. Nothing to see at all.

As the cat docked, I turned and asked, “will I see you again?” “Of course you will Lana, the boat isn’t that big.” You grinned; you had this devilish grin. Completely noncommittal. Completely aloof. Completely unreadable. Already panic had set in, what had I done? Who was I? What was I doing? What did this mean? I returned to my cabin. Robert was asleep in the bed, still in his swimming trunks. He was snoring. I didn’t know what to do. I decided to take a shower and prepare for dinner. It was late, almost six, almost dinner time. When I got out of the shower Robert was awake. “You ready for dinner? I’m starving.” “I will be, you need to shower.”

Robert and I dressed and went to the Italian themed restaurant on the boat. They seated us at a table in the middle, crammed in between all the other diners. I had a view of the entrance. I watched as you walked in twenty minutes later with Madison on your arm. My heart stopped. You looked dashing, pressed shorts, an aqua collared shirt, I think it was Lacoste. Your hair was tousled and over one eye again, I was always struck by how blonde it was. I was a swimmer in my youth, I remember that “swimmer hair”, you had it. Straw like, but soft, full of body, sexy. You took my breath away. Madison, however, was not what I had imagined. She was short, shorter than me by several inches and I’m only 5’5, and she was stocky, at least twenty pounds heavier than me, but not muscular. I had spent years in boot camp and CrossFit and yoga, I was thick but built, she looked…plain…I hate myself for thinking that, but that was the first word that came to my mind, plain, she was completely, normal. I was shocked at just how normal she looked. I was right about the big boobs though, but otherwise, I was way off. Her hair was dark brown, maybe black and pulled back in a severe ponytail. No bangs. She looked tired. Her dress was ill-fitted, floral design, spaghetti straps, and wrinkled. She was wearing flats, maybe Toms, I couldn’t tell. I was dressed in a black strapless number, fitted, I was still ready to show off my newly lost weight. My shoes were strappy and pink with little flowers on the toes and they showed off my pedicure. I resisted the urge to stand up and wave to get your attention. I didn’t need to, you saw me and headed straight to our table. We had been seated at a four-top, there were two open seats, “mind if we join you?” Before I could answer Robert said, “sure, have a seat.” You pulled out Madison’s chair and then sat beside me. I could feel you beside me, the heat radiating off your body, or maybe it was mine, I felt myself flush. “I’m Thomas, this is my wife Madison”, you held out your hand to Robert across the table. He took your hand, “I’m Robert, this is my wife Lana, we’re from Boston.” “Georgia by way of Ohio for us.” The dinner continued in this fashion, small talk between all parties. Where we were from, what we did for a living, the fact that neither of us had children, where we went to school, favorite sports teams, favorite places, and on and on. It was easy conversation, I was shocked at how easily we could sit there and lie, sit there and pretend. Madison was nice, polite, smiled easily, laughed quietly. I liked her. It was such a bizarre feeling, but I thought to myself at one point, “she’s someone I would be friends with.” When dinner ended you and Robert stood and shook hands again. You took my hand in yours and said “Lana West, it was a pleasure to meet you.” With that, you walked away, holding Madison’s hand.

Robert and I left the restaurant and headed to a disco bar on the boat. You weren’t there. We only had two more nights on the boat. There were no more excursions. We were at sea, heading back to Florida and port. I couldn’t be alone with you, hell I couldn’t even fathom how to find you. There was no excuse for us to be together. I started thinking I’d never see you again. I cried myself to sleep that night. It was the first time in a long time I had cried into my pillow over a guy, unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the last.

Our last day on the boat I got up early, ran on the track around the boat and settled into a comfy lounge chair by one of the pools. I didn’t have to find you, you found me. You came to me at the pool bar, “give me your phone”, I did. You put your number in it, “call me”. Call me. Like I’m some teenage girl. Call me. The ball was clearly in my court. You ordered two drinks, I knew then Madison was with you, and disappeared. I stood there, staring at my phone, at the number, contemplating not hitting save. Instead, I hit the message button. “This is Lana. Now you have my number too.” I hit send, but not save. I spent the day on my chair, constantly checking my phone. No response. No message. Robert came and sat with me for a bit, he was drinking beer that afternoon, a sign that maybe tonight wouldn’t be a disaster. He and I swam and laughed and for a moment had the time on the boat I had hoped we’d have. At six Robert suggested we get showered and head to dinner. The sushi restaurant this time. You weren’t there. After dinner I wanted to go back to the cabin to pack, Robert wanted to head to the casino. He and I parted ways. My watch buzzed at 9:27, it was an unknown number, “are you alone, can you get away?” It was you. “Yes”, no hesitation, “meet me at the Solarium Bar in ten minutes.” I found the bar twenty minutes later, I saw you standing at the bar, back turned to the room, chatting up the bartender. I wound my way through the crowd and to your side. There were two drinks in front of you, martinis of some sort, something I don’t drink, you handed me one, “follow me.” The Harmony of the Seas is gigantic. There are nooks and crannies, and seating in all sorts of hidden and out of the way places. You led me to a settee under a canopy looking out over a railing. It was private and it was only for those who had reserved it. I felt a rush, had you planned this ahead of time? Had you arranged this for us? Or had you arranged this for you and Madison, and it fell through, so I was second choice? These were the types of questions I eventually learned to live with. The questions I eventually stopped asking. Truth be told, these were the types of questions I didn’t want to know the answer to.

We sat, side by side, drinks on the table in front of us, a gentle breeze in our hair, the dark waters stretching for miles in front of us. “I’m sorry Lana, I’m sorry for all of this.” “Sorry for what? You didn’t do anything.” “I dragged you into something you don’t deserve. I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve never cheated on my wife.” The statement hung there; I didn’t know what to say. My mind immediately screamed, “that’s what they all say I bet!” Instead, I said “I haven’t either, all these years, this is a first for me too.” You interlocked your fingers with mine, “I need you to know that I want us to be together. I don’t want this to end. I have never met anyone like you. I need you in my life.” I sighed, you leaned in and kissed me. We made out on that settee like high school seniors on prom night in the back of our parents Buick. I’ll never forget the way your hands felt on my skin, under my blouse, touching my stomach, my sides, my back. Your fingers playing at my spine, massaging my ribs. You mouth and your tongue on my lips, my neck, my chest. I was lost. Completely enamored and begging for more. I needed you.

At midnight I came up for air and made a bad joke about turning into a pumpkin and needing to return to my cabin. You laughed, whispered, “a few more minutes.” At two in the morning we parted ways. I kissed you for what I thought would be the last time. Deep, lasting, rocking my body. I returned to my cabin, you to yours, us to our lives. At six a.m. I departed the boat with Robert, bound for the airport, bound for Boston, bound for eternity, by you.

The Affair

We met on a Tuesday. You had your wife; I had my husband. We were both on vacation. We were all relaxing. But we all had different ideas as to what that meant from our partners. To me it was a chance to recharge and go adventuring. To him it was a chance to drink as much as he could and have sex. To you, it was a chance to fix what was broken. To her, a chance to do something you wanted. All of us had a plan. All of us had a motive. None of us had an answer.

I loved (love) my husband. I loved (love) our life. I mean, we had always been at different ends of the spectrum, we had always been at odds. We had our ups and downs. Who hasn’t been there? Name me one couple in history who hasn’t been married to a person less than perfect. Name me one person who hasn’t had moments of weakness; moments where they wondered, what if? Name me one person who hasn’t considered the possibility. That possibility was you.

The problem with cruises are many, but the biggest issues, as we’ve since learned are seasickness and all you can drink packages. We both found ourselves victims of those. My husband decided to drink his weight in tequila daily and your wife found herself vomiting off the balcony. We were both alone. I think back now and realize maybe we already felt alone. By the time we met I was in my forties, married for the second time and wishing I had just said no to a second rodeo. By the time we met you were in your mid-thirties, jaded, angry, and in a relationship with a woman whom you married because she was pregnant. A woman who lost the baby two weeks after the quick wedding in the Poconos and who has never forgiven you.

The day we met we went on an ATV excursion. Four-wheeling through the jungle outside of Cozumel, Mexico. I wanted to drive. I always want to drive; I always wanted to be in charge. You wanted to drive. I know now, you take charge, you’re a domineering person, but in a subtle way, in a ‘you don’t see him coming sort of a way’. We were the only single people in the group. They made us ride together, promising to switch us at the halfway point so each one of us could drive. We fought about who would drive first. You won. You always won. I always lost. It’s the nature of this whole situation we find ourselves in. I still remember the argument. “Have you ever driven one of these before?” I paused, I wanted to lie, it was right there on my tongue, but I’m a terrible liar, or at I least was, “no” I said, “but I’m a fast-learner and it can’t be that hard.” “It’s not hard, but if you’ve never done it, it can be tricky.” “I’m Thomas by the way, Thomas Hunter.” I remember the way you held your hand out to me, casual, but convincing, sure of yourself. I remember taking your hand in mine and shaking it, “Lana”, I said in reply, “Lana West.” You drove us out, I felt so awkward, not knowing where to put my hands. “Do I grab his waist?”, “do I casually put my hands on his shoulders and play completely non-plussed”, in the end I opted for putting my hands on my hips, casual, cool. It was a mistake. The first of many.

We went first in the group, you gunned the engine, you’d driven on of these things before, I felt myself falling backwards, upended, tilting, I grabbed onto your waist and threw my head into your back to stay on. I felt you flinch as my helmet connected with your spine. I remember how you roared away from the group; you were laughing, you were mocking. Looking back now, I think you were trying to prove something. I think you were trying to scare me. I think you wanted me to feel unsure, to feel afraid. It worked. I held on for dear life. I remember thinking, “he’s going to kill us”. Eventually my fear abated, and I looked up, eventually my grip loosened, and I took in my surroundings, but I kept my hands around your waist, I held on tight, I’m still holding on. When we got to the turn-around point, you got off the Yamaha, stretched, and gave me a sideways glance. It’s a look I know well now. A look that simply says, “well…you’re turn”. I slid forward, putting myself in the driver’s seat. I noticed then how tall you were. At least six feet, maybe taller. Lean, muscular, but not overly so, I had a strange thought then, “I wouldn’t want to get in a bar fight with this guy”. You swung your leg over the four-wheeler, sat behind me and scooted up close, so close. I could feel your legs pressing against mine. I could feel your chest on my back. I remember the way your hands felt on my hips, you had big hands, I’m not a little girl, but your hands covered my sides. Embraced my hip bones. I felt safe. I felt like as long as you were holding on to me, I wouldn’t fall. I could feel your breath on the back of my neck. You leaned forward, “Alright Lana West, take me for a ride”. You reached around me and put your hands on mine, “this is the throttle, ease it forward, do you feel that?” I did. “This is the brake, don’t be afraid to use it, but be gentle”. You returned your hands to my hips. I turned the ATV; the rest of the group had caught up. I eased into the throttle, hastily, tentatively, we jerked forward, I hit the brakes, we jerked to a stop. You laughed at me. “Just do what feels natural Lana, don’t force it”. I eased onto the throttle again, I felt the machine move, I let it go this time and away we went. The trail wasn’t difficult. A few twists and turns, a few bumps here and there, but mostly it was just a wide trail through the woods. I let myself go and pushed the four-wheeler as fast as you had on the way out. My eyes were watering from the wind, despite my sunglasses. My heart was racing. I felt alive for the first time in years. I felt daring. I felt untethered.

We returned to the boat after the excursion. You shook my hand again, saying, “it was wonderful to meet you Lana West” and walked away. I went back to the room to shower. Robert was nowhere to be found. His wet swim trunks were on the bathroom floor, discarded and in a heap. There was vomit on the back of the toilet. I thought about going to find him. I thought about the fight that would ensue. Instead, I cleaned up the bathroom and undressed to shower. Tonight was supposed to be the Captain’s dinner. Robert and I were supposed to get dressed up and paint the town. We had reservations for the late seating. I had bought a new dress, having recently lost about thirty pounds, I had found a pretty Michael Kors number on sale at the local department store. It made me feel glamorous. Like maybe I was finally living up to my namesake Lana Turner. I did my hair and my makeup, taking special care on both. Something I hadn’t done in a while. I stood at the door of the cabin, staring at the handle, willing myself to walk out it alone. Willing myself to attend a dinner, that would be filled with happy couples, newlyweds on their honeymoon, octogenarians celebrating their 60^th wedding anniversary, and here I was, single, but not single, alone when I shouldn’t be. I opened the door and stepped into the narrow hallway.

I walked into the ballroom; I had never been on a cruise like this. The opulence overwhelmed me. Everything was so gilded and shiny, crystal and mirrors and flowers at every glance, it was like Vegas if Vegas had been decorated by one of those women from the Real Housewives of New Jersey. I was about to turn around and head back to my cabin when I felt a hand on my lower back. I thought, “Robert?” I was in mid-turn when you leaned in close and whispered into my ear, “Lana West, we meet again and you my dear look absolutely stunning”. My heart fluttered. I think I flinched but I didn’t pull away. I had never been called stunning before. “Shall we?” I let you escort me to your table, hand on my back, steering me in whatever direction you saw fit. You pulled out my chair and then instead of sitting you disappeared. When you returned you had my name card, I still to this day don’t know how you found it or how long you looked for it. You casually removed a name card that said Madison Hunter and replaced it with mine. And just like that, I was yours. We were seated with four other couples. Newlyweds, as promised, I can’t remember their names. She giggled too much, and he swooned too much. An elderly couple from Houston, Dottie and Frank, who were celebrating their 54^th wedding anniversary. He was a retired cattle rancher and she was a retired school teacher. Their accents made us all laugh. He called me ma’am and you son. There was the recently, just started dating gay couple, Simon and Danny, they were from New York City and both trying to make it on Broadway. They had both had bit parts in the chorus of a few shows, but none of which I was familiar with. They both liked to use the expression, “as if…” and then laugh boisterously after they said it. The final couple was just like us. A married couple from nowhere Florida, on a vacation, just enjoying each other’s company and celebrating being alive. You carried the table. I learned more about you in that night than I think I learned in all the years following. You were a contractor, ran your own business now, but started in the trenches. You had dropped out of high school in the 12^th grade when your mom got sick and worked two jobs to help pay for chemo that wouldn’t save her. You started working nights on road crews for the Ohio Department of Transportation. You found you had a knack for building things and designing. You were a problem-solver by nature and soon the foreman took notice of you. You were promoted, you went back to school, you got a GED and then an associate degree in accounting. You kept working, odd jobs during the day, building things for people, mowing lawns, doing landscaping, you worked nights on the road, your mom died. You moved to Georgia when a friend suggested you guys start a construction company together. He had gotten a tip about a development in the works, nothing official and no companies had bid on it. He figured a fledgling company could underbid the bigger the companies in the Atlanta area and make bank eventually. You sold everything you owned, moved to Atlanta the next week and the rest is history. You were a risk-taker. A self-made man. I was impressed. I barely said two words all night. You made up stories for me. I wasn’t your wife; your wife and my husband were sick in bed. Motion-sickness had gotten the better of them, but we were all old friends, we had come on this trip together, you and Robert were high school friends from Ohio, and this was supposed to be a getaway ten years at least in the making. I was a school teacher, elementary, fifth grade to be exact. Not even close. I was a writer or fancied myself as one at least. I worked as an editor at a publishing house in Boston. Per you, Robert was an investment banker. Closer, he was an accountant at H and R Block. Your wife, Madison, was an out of work interior designer, or at least that’s what she put on her resume. By day she walked dogs, by night she took care of the house. Truth be told, I had never even been to Ohio, but I let you go. I let you spin the tale and I just listened and nodded. I think now maybe I should have been concerned with how easily you lied. Maybe I should have questioned how quickly you answered, never pausing, never doubting, just weaving an intricate web of lies and mistruths into a convincing and compelling story. I think at one point I even started believing you. When Frank asked me what my favorite part about teaching fifth grade was, I replied, without hesitation, “writing, I love giving the kids a prompt and seeing where they take it, they always surprise me”. I was completely enamored with this story. I was all in. I was having fun.

I drank too much that night. We all did. We were having a good time with you at the helm. When the Captain came over to meet us you asked him if he’d dance with me. He agreed and before I could protest, I was off my feet and on the dance floor. I was awkward in strappy high heels I wasn’t used to wearing. I was awkward to begin with. The song was some Celine Dion tune, it was halfway over when we started. As the song was ending you came over, you looked almost sultry as you walked across the floor. I could see you over the Captain’s shoulder. We made eye contact. You never looked away, it made me uncomfortable but I couldn’t drop my gaze. I couldn’t stop watching you. You looked so handsome in your tuxedo. So, put together. You walked with a purpose, and with swagger, sauntering, slowly making your way to me. I remember your blonde hair, tousled, falling over one eye, unkempt, and sexy and carefree, but calculated. Your eyes were piercing blue. Like the waters off the coast of North Carolina where I had spent my summers, all tumult and churning, dangerous, but inviting. You placed your hand on the Captain’s shoulder, “mind if I cut in?” He handed me off, not letting go of me all at once, but actually giving me to you, putting my hand in yours, passing me off to the man he assumed was my husband. “So, Lana West, how are you enjoying your cruise thus far?” The song that came on next was Fly Me to the Moon by Frank Sinatra. Romantic, but quick in tempo, it’s not a slow dance and I am not a dancer. I retreated, pulled away, turned to run. You put your hand in mine, wrapped your other around my waist and whispered, “just trust me and follow me”. I did.

I woke up the next day, a bit hungover, a bit punch-drunk from the evening before. At some point Robert had come home. I wasn’t sure if he was there when I got home, or if he came home after I fell asleep (passed out). I got up at dawn, I always do, he was still sleeping when I went down for breakfast. I didn’t see you that day. I looked for you. Searched for you is more like it. I was floored that on a ship, even a ship as large as the Harmony of the Seas, that I couldn’t find you. That you weren’t, somewhere. Robert and I had no excursions planned for that day. We had made port in Honduras, I wanted to explore it, I’d never been, but Robert didn’t want to visit a third-world country, it would be a waste of a perfectly good day on an amazing boat, so he decided that we’d stay onboard. After breakfast I went back to the cabin and changed into my suit and spent my day by the pool. I imagined you off on some exciting adventure in Roatan. And I admit, I felt a twinge of jealousy when I imagined Madison beside you, riding shotgun in a rented jeep, top down, laughing and resting her hand on your leg. Robert actually showed up for lunch that day. We ate poolside. He was pleasant, chatty even and somewhat apologetic. “Work was hectic. He just needed to unwind. Yada, yada, yada.” He was excited for the Captain’s dinner that night. He was actually pissed at me when I told him it had been the night before. Somehow it was my fault, I had told him the wrong date. “Why the fuck did I even bother renting a tux then?” “Why didn’t you fucking tell me?” I knew he’d been drinking again. His use of the word “fuck” increased exponentially with every drink he took. It was like an art almost. One or two drinks, things were “fucking amazing” or “fucking cool”. Four or five drinks things became, “holy fuck-all fucking amazing” or “fucking fuck-all beyond belief”. After about seven or eight drinks things just became “can you fucking believe that fucking shit, I mean, fuck, it was fucking crazy”. He was the only person I knew that could use the word fuck as a verb, noun, adjective, adverb, preposition, all in one sentence. I mean, fuck, I think he could figure out how to make it a conjunction if he was feeling particularly inventive. He was the master of the word and it was a great indicator of how my night was going to go. That night we hit the conjunction phase early and I found myself eating dinner alone at a quiet table in a café off one of the pools. I watched people wake board on a man-made wave and I wondered where you were.

The next day we were back in Mexico and there was a snorkeling/scuba excursion to a turtle cove. I got in line for the catamaran and there you were, five people in front of me. Alone. This time I decided to surprise you. As I boarded the boat, I saw you heading for the front. I made my way through the crowd and put my hand on your waist, “Thomas Hunter, we meet again” and I laughed. I was surprised by my boldness, what if your wife had been there? I had never met her or seen her; I didn’t know what she looked like. I had assumed you were alone, but what if you weren’t? I had imagined her though. Tall, thin but curvy, big boobs, large blonde hair, bangs. I hate how detailed my vision had become. I pictured her as this sexy, voluptuous woman with big hair and a bigger personality. A woman who could handle you. A woman who could put you in your place. A woman who held her own, even if her hair was straight out of the early 90s. I didn’t see any women that met that description, so I felt fairly confident she wasn’t with you. You didn’t turn around to greet me. You didn’t even flinch at my touch. It was like you were expecting me, “Lana West, I was hoping I’d see you today, I’ve been thinking about you”.  You reached down, took the hand I had placed on your hip, held it and led me to the front of the boat. We sat, side by side, on the bow. Not speaking, just watching the waves. Our arms were touching, we sat like we belonged, we sat like we were together. We were. Together.

We arrived about forty minutes later at a place called Turtle Cove, we had both been here before, we had both seen turtles and knew what a “turtle cove” meant. It was a tourist attraction. There was a turtle cove at every island we had ever visited. It turns out we were both avid divers, but our partners were not. Not even certified, let alone avid. We spent our lives settling for snorkeling when we wanted to be 75 feet under. We always compromised and stayed on the surface when our hearts were begging to be deeper. The snorkelers got off first. Dropped near the shore, told to stay between the buoys. The divers were ferried further out and around the point, there was a reef there and a wreck in deeper water for the braver in the group. We spent an hour, together exploring the reef, the wreck, and the wall that seemed to drop into infinity beyond it. When the dive was over, and the snorkelers had been wrangled we all boarded the cat for a lunch on another island. Lunch was a buffet style affair. At least one hundred people standing in line for wilted salad and supposedly fresh fish. You took my hand, led me away from the line and onto a path in the woods. “Are you hungry?”, “not really”, “good, then follow me”. We walked in silence along the path. The sand soft on our feet, the woods alive with singing insects, after about ten minutes we emerged on a secluded beach. It was the ocean side of the island. Rocky and angry. The calm of the cove we had been in was gone. The waves were crashing, the ground hurt as I walked along it. I wished I had worn shoes. “Have you been here before?”, “no”, I was so curious, “then how did you know this was here?”, “I didn’t, I took a chance”. We turned left, hand in hand we made our way along the rocky beach to a spot where the forest met the beach and the rocks ended and the sand was soft. We sat down. Well you sat down, I stood there for a minute, until you pulled me into your lap.

There is a moment
when the world is still
and the hour is late
and the cicadas are singing
and the tree frogs are still beckoning
and the dark embraces me
that I hear you.

There is a time
as the night falls slowly
and the breeze blows gently
hot upon my wet skin
that I still feel you
and I wonder,
do you still feel me?

There is a fleeting thought
that maybe you’re somewhere
and you hear a song
or you see a wave cresting
and you think of me
and you remember
and I’m not so far away.

There is a hope
that I am not forgotten
and that I am not in vain
and that in some random thought
as I write to you
that you feel this,
that you see this.

There is a wish
that will never be granted
a dream that will never be real
a voice that says,
you’ve come too far,
you’ve come too long,
there is too much space.

There is a you.
There is a me.
There was an us.
We are worlds and anger apart,
the hurt and the pride are too strong.
But as I go to bed,
I whisper your name.

And I hope that one day,
the tide will bring you home.