“Don’t. Call. Me. Nat.” I growl as I finally make eye contact with him.
I can tell by the puffiness around his eyes that he’s been crying, or that he’s massively hung over. If his night was anything like mine, it’s probably a little bit of both.
“I’m sorry,” he says in the same tone he met me with in the kitchen yesterday.
Then, it hits me.
“Is that what you were apologizing for in the kitchen yesterday? Cheating on me?”
“No, I was saying sorry for . . . just . . .”
“Do me the decency of telling me how long it’s been going on. And not just with her. With anyone else, too.” I hug my knees to my chest to prevent my guts from spilling out as I realize she likely wasn’t the first woman to wrap her legs around his waist while he’s been married to me.
“It was just her.”
“Who is she?” I didn’t give myself permission to ask that question, but out it came.
Eric folds his hands into his pockets. “A colleague. She works in the same department.”
“How long, Eric?” I start to regret asking again as I watch his face turn a slight shade of green.
Looking at the floor, he barely manages a whisper. “Just over a year.”
My hands fly to my mouth to prevent vomit from spewing all over him as I race to the kitchen sink. I’m only half-embarrassed that this is happening in front of him. The other half reminds me he deserves to see this. I walk toward him after rinsing my mouth out. He has tears in his eyes. Bastard.
“Just over a year? Just over a year! Eric?”
I feel like every woman I’ve known on TV or in real life that I’ve made fun of. Dumb. Clueless. I always stare at these women, the ones who couldn’t hang on to their husbands, and wonder how on God’s green earth they couldn’t know something. It’s been a solid three years since I’ve felt like Eric and I were in anything that could be considered a “happy” marriage. But, an affair? It’s never once crossed my mind that he might be having one, or to have one myself. He was working long hours on his Ph.D. while I was busy with our boys and trying to hold it together. Trying to get us through the experience in one piece. Apparently, we had different goals.
He opens his mouth, maybe to answer, but I continue. “Aside from the complete disregard you had for our marriage and our family, do you realize what physical risk you put me at by having sex with someone else?”
“We weren’t having sex the whole time, Natalie.” His honesty is like a machine gun. While I assumed that they were having sex, I both now know for sure that they were, and am faced with the reality that their relationship had time to develop to that of a sexual one.
I collapse onto the couch again. “When did the sex start?”
He kneels in front of me and I literally do not have the energy to push him away. “We only had sex once. Last week.”
“Ah, yes,” I proceed sarcastically, “last week was a tough one for us. I can see how bringing someone else into our marriage would help. But, come on, Eric. You can’t expect me to believe that you’ve been sneaking around behind my back for a year and have only had sex once.”
Eric sits back on his heels. For a second, I think he’s going to try to convince me that they really did only have sex one time. Maybe that’s wishful thinking. He doesn’t argue, though, and that’s the only answer I need.
“Never mind. I don’t want to know.”
He has the audacity to look annoyed. “Come on. You said yourself we haven’t had a marriage in a long time—”
“We haven’t, but I still never cheated on you. Though I suppose you knew that since I was rarely let out of the house by myself. Was that part of your master plan? To keep me at home so you could go fool around and come home to your version of a perfect family, confident that I wasn’t with anyone else?” As I stand, so does he. He follows me into the kitchen.
“I fucked up—”
“A year, Eric? A fucking year! Do you understand that that means every single second of every single day for the last year you told me a lie? You’re a doctor, quick, add it up. How many lies is that?”
His head shakes as he looks down and licks his lips.
I step toward him again and duck down to meet his eyes, and with a cold voice I tell him. “It’s over thirty-one million. You’ve told over thirty-one million lies to me and to your boys.”
“I’m sorry, Natalie . . .” his voice seems to catch on some brewing tears as he walks to the couch and sits down, burying his head in his hands. “I honestly didn’t think you’d care,” he says, looking up. “You’ve hated me for more than a year.”