he said or did was brilliant, hilarious, and/or
charming. Was that all it took? I kept waiting for her to be fascinating,
insightful, funny. But she wasn't, at least not in e-mail form. So what did
that make me, that I could be upstaged by her?
Years ago, Tamara saw pictures of
her then-boyfriend's stunning ex-girlfriend. After exhaustive analysis, we came
up with the following axiom: You never want the exes to be too good-looking
(you feel inferior) or too homely (then you worry you're actually in that
league). You want them to be in the ballpark of your own attractiveness—only
you're obviously better. Tamara and I agreed that we always wanted to be
Version 2.0. Since I couldn't find a picture of Laney attached to any of the
e-mails, my biggest fear was that she was beautiful, and that beautiful
ultimately took all.
My low point was calling the
Chicago office and pretending to be a client who needed Laney's last name. The
receptionist gave it to me so easily that I felt even smarmier. Laney Castle. I
shit you not. I went to Google, set it to search for images, and typed in her
name. Nothing. I thought briefly about ways to get a hold of Jon's wallet, just
in case he carried a picture of her. The truly disturbing part was that in this
particular scenario, I was hoping that my husband was carrying a picture of the
other woman on his person.
Jon's e-mail did finally give me
confirmation that he really had broken it off with her right after
Thanksgiving. She'd sent two e-mails since then: the first asking if he was sure
there was absolutely no room in his life for her, and the second wishing him
well and telling him that if he ever reconsidered, she'd love to hear from him.
According to his Sent folder, he never wrote back.
Still, I was haunted by that open
door. Even if Jon and I got back together, I'd always know that if he was
feeling neglected or angry or misunderstood or horny—or any one of a million
other emotions that had made Laney so appealing the first time around—the
possibility existed that he'd go back for seconds. After all, it wasn't his conscience
that had stopped him; it was getting caught. Sure, he'd halted contact with her
now, but who knew how long that would last? It was a thought that kept me
Snooping despite the diminishing returns. Man, I hated the word
"snooping." It was just so preteen. Dear Diary, Today I got my
period for the first time and snooped on my husband!
One time, Jon called for his
nightly screening earlier than expected and I could hear his voice faintly in
the Other room as I was logged into his e-mail. I couldn't make out his words,
only the tenor of his voice. The Innocent warmth I heard there was punishing.
After thirty seconds, I turned off the computer and followed him to the
bedroom.
"... it's kind of surreal, all
the ways I have to listen to myself these days. On these messages to you, in
therapy. I haven't spent this much time just with myself in I don't know how
long. I don't like it. I mean, part of that's the fact that I'm pretty bad
company these days. But the other part is that I like myself better when I'm
with you and Jacob. So I don't just miss you—though I miss you something crazy,
don't get me wrong—I miss me with you. To state the obvious, I miss us.
'And you know I haven't been
pestering you to let me come home. You've wanted space and I've respected that.
But I think it's time for us to at least get in a room and talk, because I've
realized a lot of things. I've had three sessions of therapy and not to toot my
own horn here, but I'm making progress. Maybe you could meet with me and see
for yourself? If you're there, could you pick up so we could talk about
it?"
As he paused, I reached for the
phone, but then I stopped myself. I didn't want to talk to him just then, when
I felt so unclean. My heart was pounding triple time with the painful hope that
I could forgive him. Every night, I'd listened to his messages and felt the
terrifying swell of
charming. Was that all it took? I kept waiting for her to be fascinating,
insightful, funny. But she wasn't, at least not in e-mail form. So what did
that make me, that I could be upstaged by her?
Years ago, Tamara saw pictures of
her then-boyfriend's stunning ex-girlfriend. After exhaustive analysis, we came
up with the following axiom: You never want the exes to be too good-looking
(you feel inferior) or too homely (then you worry you're actually in that
league). You want them to be in the ballpark of your own attractiveness—only
you're obviously better. Tamara and I agreed that we always wanted to be
Version 2.0. Since I couldn't find a picture of Laney attached to any of the
e-mails, my biggest fear was that she was beautiful, and that beautiful
ultimately took all.
My low point was calling the
Chicago office and pretending to be a client who needed Laney's last name. The
receptionist gave it to me so easily that I felt even smarmier. Laney Castle. I
shit you not. I went to Google, set it to search for images, and typed in her
name. Nothing. I thought briefly about ways to get a hold of Jon's wallet, just
in case he carried a picture of her. The truly disturbing part was that in this
particular scenario, I was hoping that my husband was carrying a picture of the
other woman on his person.
Jon's e-mail did finally give me
confirmation that he really had broken it off with her right after
Thanksgiving. She'd sent two e-mails since then: the first asking if he was sure
there was absolutely no room in his life for her, and the second wishing him
well and telling him that if he ever reconsidered, she'd love to hear from him.
According to his Sent folder, he never wrote back.
Still, I was haunted by that open
door. Even if Jon and I got back together, I'd always know that if he was
feeling neglected or angry or misunderstood or horny—or any one of a million
other emotions that had made Laney so appealing the first time around—the
possibility existed that he'd go back for seconds. After all, it wasn't his conscience
that had stopped him; it was getting caught. Sure, he'd halted contact with her
now, but who knew how long that would last? It was a thought that kept me
Snooping despite the diminishing returns. Man, I hated the word
"snooping." It was just so preteen. Dear Diary, Today I got my
period for the first time and snooped on my husband!
One time, Jon called for his
nightly screening earlier than expected and I could hear his voice faintly in
the Other room as I was logged into his e-mail. I couldn't make out his words,
only the tenor of his voice. The Innocent warmth I heard there was punishing.
After thirty seconds, I turned off the computer and followed him to the
bedroom.
"... it's kind of surreal, all
the ways I have to listen to myself these days. On these messages to you, in
therapy. I haven't spent this much time just with myself in I don't know how
long. I don't like it. I mean, part of that's the fact that I'm pretty bad
company these days. But the other part is that I like myself better when I'm
with you and Jacob. So I don't just miss you—though I miss you something crazy,
don't get me wrong—I miss me with you. To state the obvious, I miss us.
'And you know I haven't been
pestering you to let me come home. You've wanted space and I've respected that.
But I think it's time for us to at least get in a room and talk, because I've
realized a lot of things. I've had three sessions of therapy and not to toot my
own horn here, but I'm making progress. Maybe you could meet with me and see
for yourself? If you're there, could you pick up so we could talk about
it?"
As he paused, I reached for the
phone, but then I stopped myself. I didn't want to talk to him just then, when
I felt so unclean. My heart was pounding triple time with the painful hope that
I could forgive him. Every night, I'd listened to his messages and felt the
terrifying swell of
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