evenbeen thinking at all? Surely Sarah had been right. Surely the most important thing for me to do right now was to save my marriage. Why was I such a fool?
“God help me,” I prayed aloud as I drove. “Help me not to blow this.”
I must admit that the idea of being back in that spacious home and sleeping on those four-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets (which I could no longer afford) and taking scented bubble baths in my big whirlpool tub and looking out the front windows onto the city lights below—well, it did have a certain appeal. Especially after being absent from all that luxury for one long and exhausting week. Maybe I was the one who needed to learn a lesson, I thought, as I drove up the winding street that led to our house.
But when I got there, I noticed a car in the driveway. So instead of pulling right in and bursting into the house with my now somewhat-rehearsed apology, I drove on past and parked in front of the house next door. I didn’t recognize the car in the driveway, but that wasn’t such a big deal since I’d always been bad at recognizing cars. It was small and red and sporty, and I suspected it belonged to one of his legal friends. Maybe John Howard, since I’d heard he’d gone through a midlife crisis, and this looked like a midlife crisis sort of vehicle to me.
Since the lights were on in the house, I knew I could easily slip up and peer in without being noticed. I wasn’t quite ready to interrupt what might be an important business meeting, and I knew I could wait for John or whomever to leave or even come back in the morning. But curious as to the condition of my poor, abandoned husband, I decided to take a peek inside. I crept up behind the laurel hedge that lines the driveway and then over to the window that looks into the dining room. I crouched in the rhododendron bushes by the house for a couple of minutes. I think I was even holding my breath until I got up the nerve to poke my nose over the window sill and look inside.
My heart must’ve stopped when I saw them. Not that they were doing anything wrong, exactly. Even so, it looked
all wrong
. At least to my eyes. Because there, sitting at my dining room table, was my husband and Judith Ramsey. Even though I knew she was the city manager and this might’ve been an official business meeting, I somehow knew that it was
not
. Maybe it was the way they leaned in toward each other as they talked with animation. Or maybe it was the bottle of wine on the table—Geoffrey and I have never been drinkers. Or maybe it was my husbands face, the easy smile and sparkling eyes—an expression I hadn’t witnessed in years. It was the same look he’d had in the photograph with Judith from his birthday party. The brightly burning candles offered more evidence that Geoffrey was no longer himself anymore than I was.
I sank down into the bushes and, pulling my knees toward my chest, buried my head and silently wept. I felt unable to breathe or even think, and I have no idea how long I stayed there in that crouched position. Finally, like a whipped and beaten animal, I slunk through the yard, across the driveway, and back to my car. Standing in the shadows, I dug through my purse to find my keys. Then I turned around for one last look, and something about seeing that sporty little red car parked in my driveway just flipped some crazy switch in my brain. Call it temporary insanity or whatever, but I ran back over there determined to let the air out of those perky little tires.
But when I got to her car, I took a deep breath and calmly ran my key along the entire length of the driver’s side, digging a nice deep gouge of rage into the shiny red paint.
I was instantly embarrassed to catch myself doing something that immature, and I’ll probably never admit those actions to any living human. But I just couldn’t help myself. Then I drove home.
I felt numb as I dragged myself up the stairs to my apartment. By now the realization was
“God help me,” I prayed aloud as I drove. “Help me not to blow this.”
I must admit that the idea of being back in that spacious home and sleeping on those four-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets (which I could no longer afford) and taking scented bubble baths in my big whirlpool tub and looking out the front windows onto the city lights below—well, it did have a certain appeal. Especially after being absent from all that luxury for one long and exhausting week. Maybe I was the one who needed to learn a lesson, I thought, as I drove up the winding street that led to our house.
But when I got there, I noticed a car in the driveway. So instead of pulling right in and bursting into the house with my now somewhat-rehearsed apology, I drove on past and parked in front of the house next door. I didn’t recognize the car in the driveway, but that wasn’t such a big deal since I’d always been bad at recognizing cars. It was small and red and sporty, and I suspected it belonged to one of his legal friends. Maybe John Howard, since I’d heard he’d gone through a midlife crisis, and this looked like a midlife crisis sort of vehicle to me.
Since the lights were on in the house, I knew I could easily slip up and peer in without being noticed. I wasn’t quite ready to interrupt what might be an important business meeting, and I knew I could wait for John or whomever to leave or even come back in the morning. But curious as to the condition of my poor, abandoned husband, I decided to take a peek inside. I crept up behind the laurel hedge that lines the driveway and then over to the window that looks into the dining room. I crouched in the rhododendron bushes by the house for a couple of minutes. I think I was even holding my breath until I got up the nerve to poke my nose over the window sill and look inside.
My heart must’ve stopped when I saw them. Not that they were doing anything wrong, exactly. Even so, it looked
all wrong
. At least to my eyes. Because there, sitting at my dining room table, was my husband and Judith Ramsey. Even though I knew she was the city manager and this might’ve been an official business meeting, I somehow knew that it was
not
. Maybe it was the way they leaned in toward each other as they talked with animation. Or maybe it was the bottle of wine on the table—Geoffrey and I have never been drinkers. Or maybe it was my husbands face, the easy smile and sparkling eyes—an expression I hadn’t witnessed in years. It was the same look he’d had in the photograph with Judith from his birthday party. The brightly burning candles offered more evidence that Geoffrey was no longer himself anymore than I was.
I sank down into the bushes and, pulling my knees toward my chest, buried my head and silently wept. I felt unable to breathe or even think, and I have no idea how long I stayed there in that crouched position. Finally, like a whipped and beaten animal, I slunk through the yard, across the driveway, and back to my car. Standing in the shadows, I dug through my purse to find my keys. Then I turned around for one last look, and something about seeing that sporty little red car parked in my driveway just flipped some crazy switch in my brain. Call it temporary insanity or whatever, but I ran back over there determined to let the air out of those perky little tires.
But when I got to her car, I took a deep breath and calmly ran my key along the entire length of the driver’s side, digging a nice deep gouge of rage into the shiny red paint.
I was instantly embarrassed to catch myself doing something that immature, and I’ll probably never admit those actions to any living human. But I just couldn’t help myself. Then I drove home.
I felt numb as I dragged myself up the stairs to my apartment. By now the realization was
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