The Secrets We Keep Novel – I must be mistaken. There must be some sort of explanation. Surely my husband of 12 years wouldn’t do this to me. “You changed our sheets?” I ask, confused. “Yes, is that a problem?” he asks me with a smile. He saunters over to me and wraps me in his arms, gazing at me like he didn’t just bang his mistress in our bed the night before. “No, no problem,” I smile up at him and he walks away. I sigh as I toss the dirty sheets into the wash when something catches my eye. That lacy black thong. The lingerie that infamously and instantaneously put my 12-year marriage in jeopardy. I’m sitting beside myself as I stare at it. Size 4. Victoria’s Secret tag. A black and lacy thong. I don’t know what to make of it. I reach for the thong in question and hold it up for him to clearly see. See what he’s done to me. To us. And I wait. What is he going to do? What’s his next play? Denial or surrender? A tear runs down his face and suddenly all happiness is gone. “Sarah…” is all he can muster, looking down. “So it’s true? You’re cheating on me? In our home? In our bed!?” I choke on those last words.
William PRESENT Sarah’s not coming home tonight. At least not at a reasonable hour. She’s out with Erica. Something about future team-building. And it’s a weeknight too. What? Guess she’ll miss her usual morning swim routine tomorrow. Swimming in any other context would just be a normal form of exercise or recreation. But not this. Not the way she does it. There’s nothing normal about her constant need to swim. It started about six months ago. Like clockwork, she’d get up and swim for at least an hour. Everyday. Before the sun rose. Even on weekends. Why? I’ve asked her about it many times, but she’s never given me a satisfactory response. Am I missing something? I try not to let it bother me. The fact that the water has become her new form of religion. Or her idea of a sanctuary. When I should be her sanctuary. I should be the first thing she checks off her to-do list in the morning. God, I’d love nothing more than to have intercourse to my wife right when she awakens. We used to. A lot. There’s something about a morning release. It just seamlessly starts the day off right. When she’d wrap her legs around me so tight it was hard to breathe. I’d get so turned on.
Getting lost in her smell and the way her curls would fall and lightly tickle my face. Her smile was breathtaking. So honest and trusting and carefree. I’d run my tongue up and down her body, paying ample attention to those tiny pink mounds that would thicken at my touch so exquisitely. Hearing her moan my name. Begging and pleading for me not to stop. God! My shaft is rock hard now. And I’m breathing heavily, as if I just ran a 5K in one fell swoop. Why did I let my mind go there? I want to call her right now and let her velvety voice soothe my frustrations. Let her filthy words subdue this throbbing need within me. But I won’t. She’s working and I don’t wanna screw with that. It’s the same courtesy she grants me whenever I need a quiet moment to write. Leaving her alone is the least I can do. My heart palpitates though and my hands shake.
They’re actually shaking. Can I not be left alone anymore? I’m antsy. Sweating. Frustrated. And hard as steel. The house is dark and quiet. My daughter went to bed hours ago. It’s just me and my laptop. The tool that pays for my livelihood and whets my appetite on nights like this is one in the same. No, I can’t do this. Well, at least not without a little amber-hued assistance anyway. My feet pad into the kitchen now. And in this moment, I’m not ashamed to admit that I have needs that maybe my wife simply can’t or won’t fulfill anymore. Or at least not as often as I’d like her to. I’m weak? Definitely. Drunk? Soon. Soft recessed lighting illuminates the marble countertops as I slowly let the bottle of whiskey fill my crystal glass over ice.
A wedding present no less. How ironic. This is my new normal. I regard the bottle, it mocking me for my inability to get regular from my wife. It also somehow knows all too well the dirty thoughts that flood my mind. I swallow hard and let out a soft grunt. A look of disgust mixed with lust on my face. Disgust at myself. Lust for… I know I’m wrong. So wrong. But I also know I want it to work. I want to be patient. I want to love her the way she deserves to be loved. Both things can be true. But something’s not right with us. I’m not sure when it started to feel not right. I wish I did. So maybe that’s why I am the way that I am. A cheater. A deceiver. Something nags me in the back of my mind. Flitting about my head, trying to get me to stop. But I can’t. This is what I’ve been reduced to. A desperate man constantly ignored by the one person I want the most.
What else does she expect me to do? Part of me doesn’t want to. But the other part? The other part can’t wait. I saunter down our hallway, the walls littered with framed photos of us when we were younger. Happier. On vacation having the time of our lives. I’ve gotta get it back. I want it back. But not tonight though. Tonight, I’ve already made the decision. This newfound feeling of anticipation makes my lips curl up. I want her. The woman. The other woman. I open my home office door. I don’t bother switching on the light, but I do lock it behind me. Can’t risk having anyone walking in on me in my time of salacious need. Only moonlight illuminates the room. Placing my whiskey glass on the desk, I sit and wake up that laptop, scrolling through my facetime contact list until I find her name. Her. Rochelle. She isn’t listed in my contacts as Rochelle of course. I’ve listed her under some random name I chose six years ago — Peter. I should’ve deleted it. If for nothing else than to save my sanity. But I’m a glutton for punishment. I moan at the very idea of hearing her voice again.
My index finger hovers over the return button. I need her tonight. It’s been six years. And that itch, that urge inside of me refuses to be ignored. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. When I’m alone, I’m left to my own devices. My own temptations. My old ways. Stop. Stop. Stop. If you love her. Stop. But as I’ve said before, I’m an idiot. But wait a minute. This is crazy. What if she’s with someone else now? It has been six years. What if she’s married? Has kids of her own? Has a whole new life? God, I’m pathetic. Longing for the old flame that single-handedly blazed through my marriage ’til there was practically nothing left. I may be pathetic, but I’m not above this. I have to know. Then when I know. I’ll… know. I silently will my quivering index finger to stop shaking and just do it. I press that sole button that has the power to change everything. The facetime tone rings. My pulse drums wildly in my ear. Don’t answer. Don’t. It rings again and then my screen is flooded with her image.
Rochelle. God, she’s more beautiful than I remember. Her caramel skin as dewy and velvety as the day I met her. Her beautiful voluminous spirals effortlessly tease her shoulders. She looks flushed and certainly surprised to see me. This should be interesting. “William! I’m… how are you? How…” she starts. “Are you alone?” I ask, in that deep voice I remember her liking so much it would make her wet. She turns to look behind her, almost instinctively to make sure. “Yes…” she hesitates, obviously unsure of where this is going. “Are you alone?” she asks. I nod. Slowly. “I miss you,” I admit. Sad, but still true. “William…” she breathes through her response, like we’re gonna regret this if we go any further. “Why are you calling me? Now after all this time? And be straight with me,” she demands as politely as she can. “Have I ever lied to you, Rochelle?” It’s subtle, but I can tell. Just the sound of her name on my lips makes her quiver. Guess I’ve still got it. Still got her.
“Never.” “I want to see you. Again,” my tone inarguable. I mean this. Really mean it. “Are you still with her?” “You know I am.” I watch her, indecision clouding her countenance. She tries to speak, but I shush her and close my eyes. I don’t want to hear anymore. I can’t. I can’t let us talk ourselves out of this. Not now. “Take your shirt off,” I demand as I open my heated eyes back up. She laughs and looks down, embarrassed. She bites her bottom lip. A lip I’m very familiar with. Her hair has fallen in her eyes, and I watch her as she sweeps some strands behind her ear. She looks back up at me, her gaze unreadable. She’s deciding if she’s willing to go where I absolutely want this to go. “William, I don’t know if I can do this.” I close my eyes again. This time in frustration. She sighs, like she’s at her wit’s end. “Why?” she demands. And I get it. I haven’t reached out to her in six whole years. And when I finally do make contact, it’s for… this. I’m such a prick. “Rochelle, I…” “What?” she looks at me, waiting. “Please…” is all I’ve got. My eyes fill with a hungry ache, as I try my best to convey just how much I want her. Now. “Hold on,” she says quietly, not making eye contact with me. She leans the phone against something so it doesn’t fall and steps back a little. I can see that she’s wearing a white tank top, with a bra underneath.
She’s also wearing grey lounge shorts. She’s gorgeous. So gorgeous. She looks to the side, biting her bottom lip again, and slowly lowers the straps on her tank top, one at a time, pulling her arms through. Then crossing her arms in front of her, she reaches to her stomach and raises the top off completely, leaving the bra on for me to admire. This is when she locks eyes with me. Her stare intense, but vulnerable. She unhooks her bra from behind and lets it fall to the floor. She’s bear for me now. Her boobs have always been nothing short of perfection. Round, firm, begging to be fondled and worshipped. I lean in closer, completely mesmerized. My shaft begging to come out and play. Still looking at me, she hooks two thumbs on either side of her shorts and slides those down, revealing white cotton panties. My fist reaches for my mouth. I want to rip those off of her. Now. “Rochelle,” I whisper. “You’re driving me crazy.” She lowers her panties now and steps out of them. I gaze at her exquisiteness. Her toned abs. Those bouncy natural boobs. Her private part, trimmed and neat.
She puts her hands on her stomach and I watch as her fingers crawl down, down, down, past her silver naval ring, past her bikini line, past her… “God,” I breathe. “I wish I could be there with you.” “Me too,” she closes her eyes, like she didn’t mean to say that out loud. A tear falls down her cheek. I sit back and frown, concerned now. “Rochelle,” I say as my brows furrow. She sobs and removes her hands from her body. She covers her face and now I’m filled with so much remorse, I can barely breathe. “I can’t do this to myself William. Not again.” “What?” I plead. “I love you. And I hate you. God I’m so screwed up,” she grumbles through her tears. “I…” She grabs her tank top from the floor and covers herself up. “No, no! I can’t,” she growls as she ends the call.
The screen is black now and my eyes are the size of saucers. I sit back in my chair and place my hands behind my head, fighting to catch my breath. God, she’s screwed up? I’m the one who’s screwed up. In the span of 5 minutes, I’ve turned both our lives to rot. What’s wrong with me? SIX YEARS AGO I’m in my bed. In my marital bed, lying on my side, my head propped up on a luxurious pillow that belongs in some high-end hotel somewhere. I stare down at her. Her perfect back the color of coffee with a hint of cream. She looks so delicious I want to bite into her. Lick her. Tease her. Honor her. But she’s sleeping so peacefully, a soft adorable snore escaping her throat. In this moment, she trusts me. Maybe even loves me. Unconditionally. I don’t want to wake her, but I can’t help but caress her, ever so gently. The backs of my fingers find their way to her shoulder blades to stroke her delicately. I’m smiling, contentedly. I can’t help that either. I’ve just finished making love to her 15 minutes ago. My love. Rochelle. I’ve been seeing her now for about six months. I met her at one of my book signings.
I had just finished Book 3 of A Pair of Wings, signing copy after copy for my fans when I spotted her in the check-out aisle. She wasn’t there for me. No, she was purchasing some self-help finance book on how to pay down your student loans. She must’ve been about 22. Our eyes locked and oh my God, those eyes. Such a deep chocolate brown, I got lost in them. Even from 20 feet away. Watching her as she left the bookstore was gut-wrenching. I wanted to get up, rush after her and stare into those dark eyes. Stare at those full rosy lips. Take in her unmatched beauty once more. But I was a married man. I had no business getting hot at the idea of touching her. Getting hard at the sight of her. Pulse quickening at the very thought of taking her in the backseat of my Lincoln. No, not there. She’s too good for that. I’d take her to the Ritz on Olympic.
Bang her senseless from behind as I conquer those luscious lips. Filling her exquisitely with my eager shaft. My fantasy too much to bear, I shook my head and closed my eyes to wipe the preposterous idea from my mind. I had to get back to focusing on what’s important. My fans. The people who actually buy and read my books. The ones who allow me to do what I love. Still, when my signing engagement came to a close, I found myself searching for her on the off chance she was still around. I hoped. I prayed. My heart racing, I peered into various nearby shops. This was a happening spot, this shopping complex. Plenty of trendy non-returnable merchandise to purchase. Maybe it was an easy breezy day for her. Maybe she didn’t have somewhere else to be. Maybe those eyes were just as intrigued by me as I was by her. We had a moment, didn’t we? As luck would have it, there she was. Her. Standing outside the chic food court. She didn’t see me at first. She was sipping on a smoothie that looked to have some orange or pineapple in it. What I wouldn’t have given to be that fortunate straw, blessed with the gift of the touch of her lips.
I stopped, gazing at her, my mind trying to make a decision on whether or not I was going to do this. Was I going to put myself out there? Was I going to let my intentions be known? I wanted her. Even though I belonged to someone else. When her eyes finally met mine, I could see it. She stared at me with not only recognition but expectation. This particular meeting wasn’t by chance. It may have been at first back at the bookstore, but this? Right here? She was waiting for me. I’ll never forget the first words she uttered to me. “Took you long enough,” she said with the sexiest smile I’d ever seen. And just like that, I was putty in her hands. And here we are. Now, in my bed. Me still stroking her back, not wanting this feeling to end. This blissful satisfaction that I don’t deserve. Beside her, I am her king and she is my queen. She rouses awake now, stretching her arms and smiling up at me. There’s a twinkle in her eye that I put there.
That very twinkle used to exist within Sarah, but sadly, it vacated long ago. She smooches me, breathing me in, pulling me closer to her. Her hands embrace my cheeks and find their way to my dark brown hair, currently tousled in post-banged anarchy. She pulls at my strands, claiming me and pulling me on top of her. I prop myself up on my forearms, encasing her frame beneath mine. I smile down at her. “Still wet are we?” I ask. She giggles. “Maybe. What are you gonna do about it?” she challenges. “I have a few ideas,” I whisper as I claim her bottom lip between my teeth. She moans beneath me. My tongue finds hers and she tastes so sweet. Like cinnamon and the champagne we indulged in earlier tonight. Her mouth awakens something in me. I’m an animal that’s been locked in its cage for too long. And I need out. Now. I trail hungry smooches down her throat as she takes my index finger into her mouth, sucking it the same way she devoured my shaft just minutes ago.
I want, no need to be inside of her now. I pull her sleep shirt up ’til it’s a mess at her neck. She’s breathing heavily, lust in her eyes. Her beautiful chests fall slightly to the sides. I palm both of them, greedily suckling one pebbled tip into my hungry mouth. Her breathing escalates with each swipe of my tongue. I love the sounds she makes. When it’s just us in this huge house, she can be as loud as she wants. She’s beautifully uninhibited and I love what freedom sounds like. I pinch the tip of her other chest and then switch, honoring each one’s individuality. She groans at my touch, grabbing at my hair and pulling. It hurts but just a little, just the way I like it. I make my way down her stomach, my teeth grazing and biting gently as I go. When I come upon a black lacy thong, I slowly pull it down her smooth legs with my teeth, Rochelle lifting those hips for me, aiding in their removal.
My fingers find their way inside her as if they have no choice. She’s so exquisitely wet for me that they must feel the glorious moistness for themselves. “Spread those legs wider for me Rochelle,” I demand. And she does. With pleasure. God I can’t get enough of her. I claim her mouth again, swallowing her moan. Then I dive down to her center, my tongue lapping at her slick crevice. I want it all, every last drop. I watch her eyes roll into the back of her head and I can’t help but smile at the sound of her Oh my Gods. Then my lips latch on to her throbbing cherry and that’s when the noises really take flight. “William,” she gasps. And that does it. If hearing her say ‘Oh my God,’ just a moment ago got me going, then hearing her say my name has taken me over the edge. A newfound primal energy overtakes me. I feel her body clenching, her muscles tightening as I thrust my tongue over and over again onto that sweet spot. She’s close and I don’t relent. I encircle and suck on her delectable nub until her legs shake. “You taste so good,” I growl. She holds onto my shoulders as I watch her come apart at the seams for me. Her release is so magnificent to watch. I wouldn’t dare peel my eyes away.
If I ever did, I’d be robbing myself of a remarkable rapture that she shares only with me. And that’s when it comes to me. I want this always. I want her mouth, her private part, her body, her everything. Always. All of it, just for me. Forever. What am I doing? I love her. When her breathing slows, I smile and then smooch her slowly and deeply. I breathe in her warmth and encircle her in my arms, squeezing her. I’m not sure I’ve ever smooched her quite like this before and I can tell she notices a change in me too. I look into her eyes and she frowns, curious. “What is it?” she asks. “I love you,” I confess. Her eyes moisten and she covers her mouth in surprised shock. “William,” she breathes and smooches me again, this time with more passion than she’s ever blessed me with. She claims my mouth this time, caressing my cheeks. Her smooch filling me with so much love, I don’t even need to hear her say it back. I know. She loves me too. “I’m gonna leave her,” I say when I finally come up for air. “What?” she asks like she doesn’t believe me. I nod. “There’s no other option. I want to be with you and only you. I love you.”
“Are we gonna do this for real? Out there? For everyone to see?” she asks as she points towards the window that represents the rest of the world. The world outside our secret cocoon. “Yes,” is my simple reply. “You’re sure you want this? To leave your wife. To break up the home you’ve built with her?” “We’re not happy. We haven’t been for some time. It’s time to end it. I know that now,” I smooch her again. “William, wait, wait…” she moves from underneath me and sits up. Her hands at her temple as she lets out an exasperated sigh. I lay beside her and caress her inner thigh. “I didn’t know this was on the table. I guess I never allowed myself to even dream it. A life with you. It’s kinda blowing my mind right now,” she says. I raise an eyebrow and smile at her. “Isn’t that a good thing?” I chuckle as I turn to lie on my stomach now, still facing her. “I mean, yes. There are things I want William. I want marriage. I want a family. I want to grow old with you,” her face is serious now, her words incapable of being withdrawn. She watches me, an innocent vulnerability seeping out of her. “Is that crazy?” she whispers but doesn’t make eye contact with me. My silence is deafening.
“Say something,” she turns to me. “I want… you,” I say simply. “When?” “She’s back on Sunday. I’ll tell her then,” my words so simple and yet so final. She shakes her head, still not believing any of this is real. Her breathing is shaky. I grab her hand and massage it, trying to calm her nerves. “We’re doing this,” she says, a tear dropping from her eye. “We’re doing this,” I parrot as I wrap my hand around the back of her neck and pull her in for a smooch. I look back at her, her eyes still closed. She licks her lips and then looks at me. “I love you too,” she says. And then we smooch, barely letting each other up for air. On Sunday, Sarah did find out about my infidelity, but in the worst way possible. She found out while carrying my unborn Violet in her belly. Sarah SIX YEARS AGO I’m sitting beside myself as I stare at it. Size 4. Victoria’s Secret tag. A black and lacy thong. I don’t know what to make of it. Words won’t escape my lips. I just sit there, sweat misting at my temple. My breathing elevated. I must be mistaken. There must be some sort of explanation. Surely my husband of 12 years wouldn’t do this to me. We’re happy! We’re happy. I came home from a relaxing weekend with my mother, Meredith.
It was Mother’s Day after all, and I treated her to a spa getaway. We got our nails done, our hair done, massages, the works. We overindulged in dessert wine and steak. We giggled ourselves senseless into the wee hours of the night. It was as if what happened those final months of my senior year at Wayfall High was of no concern anymore. When I embarrassed our family with my teenage pregnancy, things got weird. My mother distanced herself from me, which truthfully really hurt. I thought if anyone was going to be in my corner, it would be her. She had me at a young age too. Well, not as young as me, but… I was still her daughter, whether or not I made a mistake. The change in our relationship was subtle. I’d ask her to go to prenatal appointments with me and she’d conveniently always be busy. She did come to one though. At first, I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to know. But I was just so excited that she was by my side, I thought why not? Let’s make a memory together. The doctor rubbed that cold jelly on my tummy and revealed to us a tiny shaft. And just like that, I had a son. My future Patrick. I cried when I found out. These weren’t the same kind of tears I shed when I first discovered I was pregnant. No, those tears were of the regretful kind. These fresh new tears were of the elated kind.
She hugged me and cried with me that day. It was then that she discovered acceptance. Acceptance of my decision to go ahead and start this family, planned or not. Acceptance that I was going to marry my high school sweetheart whilst still in high school. Others may laugh and disapprove of my decision, but my mother decided when it all became real to her, that she was gonna stand by me, with her head held high no less. We may have hit a rough patch, but we found our way back to each other. And William knew of all my struggles with my mom. I’d confided in him because he was my best friend and that’s just what you do. You pour your heart out to the one person who’s the closest one in the world to you. Which brings me back to this moment. How could not only my husband but my best friend betray me? Is this our rough patch? Are rough patches all that this life is about? Well, mine anyway? Looking back on it, there were clues. When I approach our bedroom, I notice my sheets are surprisingly freshly changed. William never bothers himself with the laundry. That’s the task I do. He does the trash, the grilling, the vacuuming and the yard. Laundry is my thing. I’m happily surprised, not only to be able to sleep on fresh linen tonight that I hadn’t laundered myself, but also that our old sheets are probably tossing away in the drier by now. But nope, he hadn’t gotten that far. The dirty sheets are still at the bottom of the hamper.
I sigh, blindly relieved he was still my William. Half-assing it ’til the day he dies. “You changed our sheets?” I ask, confused. “Yes, is that a problem?” he asks me with a smile. He saunters over to me and wraps me in his arms, gazing at me like he didn’t just bang his mistress in our bed the night before. I smooched him. It was the last time I allowed myself to smooch him with the kind of trust marriages are built on. I was filled so much with ignorant bliss. Ignorant to what awaited my fated discovery that Mother’s Day. Here I was thinking everything was roses with me and William. We’d sneak smooches every chance we’d get. He’d paw at me in the back of movie theaters. Have his hands under my skirt in elevators. It hit me like an out-of-nowhere tornado. Never once did I get the sense that he was unsatisfied with our life. And maybe that was because I had baby on the brain. I wanted another baby and I wasn’t getting any younger. The quest consumed me. And maybe that stressed him out. Me constantly needing his hot white release inside of me. You’d think he’d like that sort of thing. Me practically begging to be screwed raw on the regular. But no. He blindsides me by allowing his conquest to thoughtlessly leave behind a naughty souvenir. “No, no problem,” I smile up at him and he walks away. I sigh as I toss the dirty sheets into the wash when something catches my eye. That lacy black thong. The lingerie that infamously and instantaneously put my 12-year marriage in jeopardy. The mist collecting at my temple turns into full on sweat buckets.
I feel sick to my stomach. I can feel the cold sweat at my neck and forehead. My vision goes black and all I can see in front of me is stars. Hastily, I shove the black lingerie into my pocket, not quite ready to let him know I know. “William,” I can’t hide the horror in my voice. I rush to the hallway bathroom, kneel before the toilet and rid my stomach of that morning’s breakfast buffet. William rushes to my side, kneels next to me and rubs my back. “Sweetheart,” his voice mimics concern. That word grates on my ears. Sweetheart. Coming from his lips, it’s like an assault. How dare he utter something so endearing to me? “What’s going on? Do you think it’s something you ate?” he asks. I think about that for a moment. I did indulge in that wine, but I was no lightweight. A few glasses wouldn’t have me bent over a toilet like this. Then I start to do the math in my head. May 10. I’m 5 days late. “No, I don’t think so. Would you mind getting me one of those tests under the sink?” I inquire. I can’t believe I’m being so polite right now. I’m acting myself because I’m not ready yet for all this to go sideways. A part of me still wants to believe this is all just a terrible misunderstanding. Another part of me though? To say I’m furious is offensive to the word furious. I’m seeing red. I want to end him. Squeeze the very life out of him. He betrayed me. Broke me. Destroyed the very foundation of everything we built together. I’ll say it again. He hurriedly brings me the test and I rip it open. He leaves briefly to give me some privacy as I read the directions and do my business.
I wait the five minutes and clear as day, a bright bold plus sign flashes in my face. A myriad of emotions flood through me. Happiness, relief, joy, nausea, impending doom, disgust. In this moment, I hate that I can’t just feel all the good stuff you’re supposed to feel when you’ve worked so hard at trying to get pregnant a second time, and your wish finally comes true. I really thought before today that it might not ever happen for me. I thought that maybe my body was only going to allow me one child. And I was going to accept that. But now, not only am I beside myself with elation for our growing family, I’m terrified of what comes next. I don’t want to say anything. I don’t want to call him in here and tell him the big news. I want to lock myself in this bathroom and live here for the rest of my life, never having to face my future. “Honey?” he says after about 10 minutes of no news. Another term of endearment that makes me want to vomit again. I place the positive test on the countertop just as he comes to the door. I motion toward the test and he turns his head, anticipation flooding his eyes.
Before he came running to me. Before he knew our lives were about to change, all thoughts of him were venomous. The very idea of him made my skin recoil. But that look he gives me. Eyes welling up. The start of a smile playing on his lips. I can’t bear it. He can’t get away with this so easily. I reach for the thong in question and hold it up for him to clearly see. See what he’s done to me. To us. And I wait. What is he going to do? What’s his next play? Denial or surrender? A tear runs down his face and suddenly all happiness is gone. “Sarah…” is all he can muster, looking down. “So it’s true? You’re cheating on me? In our home? In our bed!?” I choke on those last words. “I… I…” he puts his hands on his hips. His shaky exhale masking a sob. I take his non-explanation as all the explanation I need. A stubborn tear runs down my cheek. “Oh God,” I cry. And he lets me. I can tell he doesn’t think he has the privilege of holding me in my despair. He just stands there watching me with regretful eyes. “Sarah, I’m…” I hold up my hand, shutting him up. “Don’t,” I order, looking up at him with my tear-filled eyes. I see a newfound hesitance residing within him. And I revel in that hesitance. I want it to stay there.
Live there. Grow there. Breed more hesitance. At least for now. Because in this moment, I’m reclaiming my power. He’s at my mercy. He may have committed the unthinkable, but it’s me holding the key to the cell I’m emotionally locking him in. I enjoy seeing his eyes pleading with me, wondering if he’s even allowed to be happy. To be elated that it finally happened. We’re pregnant. We made something beautiful together. A sweet miracle. But I also enjoy watching him wonder if he’s even worthy of my forgiveness. This can’t be good. No healthy relationship can exist and certainly not thrive like this. I have to do something. I don’t want this. I don’t want the power. I don’t want a broken home. I only want him. For her, our unborn child. “Do you still love me William?” I ask. I instantly wish I could take back those words. I mean! What if he doesn’t? “Of course I do. I’ll always love you,” he says. I nod, not sure yet if I believe him. Or what his love means. I hate this place. This is a bad place. “Can I…?” he motions toward my hands. I shake my head in response. He presses his lips together, nodding in understanding. “There are no words that can excuse what I’ve done. I’m so sorry Sarah. I hope one day you can forgive me,” he says through tears. I don’t believe him. Not now. But I will. I will work toward believing him again with all my might for our family.