“What?”
“We are so far beyond any stupid list of rules. I love that you still think those are relevant.”
“Why aren’t they relevant?”
“The people who wrote those rules don’t even exist anymore, Owen.”
“That’s not true. I’m still the person I was.”
“Well, I’m not,” she said. “The person I was when I wrote down those rules—that person doesn’t exist anymore. That Lucy has left the building!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Do we really want to have this conversation?” Lucy asked. “Because I don’t think we do.”
Lucy went into the kitchen to get some wine. She poured herself a glass of sauvignon blanc and drank it quickly, and then instead of heading back into the living room, instead of talking to Owen, she put on her running shoes and a heavy jacket and an old scarf.
“I’m going to take a walk,” she told Owen.
“It’s pitch-dark outside.”
“I’ll bring a flashlight,” she said. “I just need some air.”
“Don’t forget your phone,” Owen called after her as she walked out the door. “You wouldn’t want to forget your phone.”
Lucy headed down the driveway and toward the dirt road. When she got out of sight of the house, she called Ben, but he didn’t answer. She thought of calling her sister, but she didn’t know what she would say. Mostly she hoped Owen would be asleep by the time she got home. And even though it was cold and dark, it felt good to be outside. She walked for a long time, and she didn’t think to turn around until she was quite far from the house.
When she got back, all the lights in the house were out. She let herself in quietly and locked the door behind her. She was setting the alarm when she heard Owen’s voice.
“I want you to stop, Lucy.”
Owen was sitting at the kitchen table, in the dark. He was staring down at a glass of bourbon in his hand. “Whatever is going on, I want it to stop. We can talk about it or we can not talk about it.”
Lucy walked over to the table and sat across from him.
“It was after you started, just so you know,” she said. “I know how fast you found someone. And it wasn’t because I was snooping.”
“How did you know?”
“Because you were so happy all of a sudden. Slinking around, smiling all the time, showing up with cat hair all over you. I felt like I was living with a sixteen-year-old boy who’d just convinced his prom date to go all the way. And that was not fun for me, just so you know. That did not exactly renew my faith in our marriage.”
“I’m sorry,” said Owen.
“You know, it was one thing to be invisible to the world. To be yet another invisible mommy. I’d gotten used to that, actually. I’d gotten used to slipping on my Merrells and heading off into the world like a phantom of a person, being yes-ma’am’d if I wasn’t ignored completely. But apparently I’ve been involved in a marriage where my husband doesn’t even see me. What did you think? You thought I wouldn’t do anything?”
“No! I tried to—I tried not to think about it. It’s not the most pleasant thing to think about. I tried to put it out of my mind.”
“You thought I just really, really needed French lessons,” Lucy said. She put on a weird voice, like a dopey guy in a 1950s TV commercial. “‘Those French lessons sure put a spring in my wife’s step!’”
“Did you meet him in your class?”
“I didn’t take French, Owen,” said Lucy. “I never took a single class.”
“So that was all just so you could—”
“Go see someone. Yes. Go see my person in the city. That’s what French was for.”
“Okay,” he said. “Wow.”
“We did this together, Owen. We did this to each other.”
“Yes, we did a stupid thing, and we both did it. I should not have agreed to it, I should have shut it down the minute it came up, and obviously I didn’t.”
“You didn’t shut it down,” said Lucy. “Quite the opposite.”
“Yes, right, I had fun. I enjoyed it. Guilty. Guilty as charged.”
Lucy reached for Owen’s glass and took a big sip of bourbon. And then another one. And another.
“Just tell your somebody that we decided to stop early,” Owen finally said. “Say we agreed we made a mistake, and we decided to cut things short. We’ll go to therapy and work on our marriage. Obviously all of this is a symptom of something bigger. Let’s work on that.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
For a moment, things could go one way or they could go the other.
“Because I’m in love with my somebody.”
And then Lucy started to cry.
Lucy started to cry.
*
Lucy crawled into bed and got under the covers. After a bit, Owen climbed in next to her. They both stared up at the ceiling. Neither of them said anything. Owen finally reached over and took Lucy’s hand, and held it in his. His hand was warm and big and soft and forgiving. Tears rolled down Lucy’s face, slowly but continuously, but she did not sob.
“Do you still love me?” Owen eventually asked.
“Yes,” Lucy said.
And it was true, she thought. She did love Owen.
“But I love him too.”
“Okay,” Owen said. He did not let go of her hand. “That’s okay.”
“You don’t know him. He lives in Brooklyn.”
“What? How did you—you think you’re in love with him?”
“I didn’t think it would happen. I wasn’t looking for it to happen. But it did and it has and now this is what we’ve got.”
It was late, three o’clock in the morning. Owen got up to go to the bathroom. When he got back into bed, Lucy sat up and turned on the light.
“I was thinking, no matter what happens, between you and me, I mean, the family part of us doesn’t have to break up,” she said.
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean, we’ll always be a family. We’ll always be his parents.”
“Are my brother Greg and his ex-wife, Alexa, still a family? No. And do you know why? Because they got divorced and they’re both married to other people. That’s what happens when you get divorced. You stop being a family.”
“I’m talking about something different than what your brother did.”
“Like what?”
“Like, different. Amicable. Friendly.”
“I honestly have no idea what sort of relationship you’re talking about.”
“I mean, we’ll always be his parents. We can make it amicable. We can be those amazing divorced parents who are best friends and do holidays together and go to soccer games together and take, maybe, vacations together at some point.”
“Okay, that thing you’re talking about doesn’t exist. And if it does, somewhere, it’s because the parents are too selfish to go ahead and admit that they’re ruining their kids’ lives.”
“It does exist, Owen. People do it. They stay friends.”
Owen rolled over and stared at the wall, his back to his wife.
“I won’t be your friend,” he finally said.
“What?”
“I don’t want to be your friend if you do this to us. If you do this, I’ll never say two words to you again.”
“You’ll have to, Owen. We’ll still be raising a child together.”