I asked what counseling would be intended to accomplish. She said it could help me work through my anger and teach us how to communicate again. I said we could certainly improve communication, but that communication had not been the thing that led her to sleep with someone else and hide it. She stared at me as though I'd been unnecessarily crude. Then she said she wouldn't let me turn an unfortunate incident into a character assassination.
I slept badly that night, and the next morning I almost called Daniel to ask whether I was being cruel. Instead I wrote down the conversation and went to work. I did call Sandra, who reminded me that refusing reconciliation was not the same as attacking somebody's character. She also told me that feeling sad about the decision did not automatically mean it was wrong. I'd begun to need that reminder because Kate's certainty often made my own clear memories feel less solid.
When she invited me to dinner at the restaurant where we'd had our first date, I agreed. The invitation came two weeks after we'd settled into the guest-room arrangement, and I knew from the location that she intended the evening to carry a particular meaning. I could have refused, but curiosity overcame reluctance. Part of me still wanted to hear something from her that might explain how she'd crossed the distance from the woman at our wedding to the woman at our kitchen table. I wasn't expecting to reverse my decision, but I hoped a genuine conversation might make the end less bitter.
The restaurant had changed its lighting and redecorated the bar, though the old brick wall beside the windows remained. The first time we'd been there together, we'd ordered pasta, split a dessert, and stayed until the staff started putting chairs on tables. Kate had talked about her ambitions without once making me feel mine were small. That memory followed me through the door so vividly that I almost forgot why we were there this time. For a few seconds, seeing her waiting at our table felt like stepping into a photograph.
She had dressed carefully in a dark green outfit I remembered complimenting months before. There was a small candle between us, and she'd ordered sparkling water rather than wine. She asked about work and listened attentively while I described a difficult shipment that had finally arrived on schedule. She even asked follow-up questions, an attention I'd missed enough to find it painful. Then she put her hands together on the table and said she wanted to talk about us.
"I've been thinking a lot," she began. "And I've realized I handled everything badly." I waited. She said the affair had been a terrible mistake, that she'd allowed attention from someone at work to make her feel desired during a stressful period, and that she loved me. She described the marriage we'd built, the holidays we'd spent together, and the possibility of rebuilding if both of us were willing to behave like adults.