I leaned back.
“That’s the problem.”
She stood again and started pacing.
“You’ve been distant too.”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
That stopped her.
“You have.”
“I know.”
“You’ve been obsessed with work.”
“Yes.”
“We barely go anywhere.”
“True.”
“You turn everything into a plan.”
“Also true.”
Emma stared at me.
I continued.
“I’m sure I have been difficult to love sometimes.”
“I’m sure I missed things you were trying badly to tell me.”
“I’m sure our relationship needed work.”
Hope appeared in her face.
Then I said:
“None of that explains Alex.”
The hope disappeared.
“You don’t get to make me responsible for a choice you hid because you knew I would not consent to it.”
“I’m not.”
“You just started listing my failures after I confronted you with your affair.”
“I’m explaining why it happened.”
“No.”
“You’re explaining why you were vulnerable to it.”
“That is different.”
Emma stared.
I had spent the afternoon thinking about exactly that distinction.
I needed it.
Otherwise, every problem in our relationship could become retroactive permission for what she had done.
“Did you sleep with him?”
I asked.
“No.”
I believed her before she added:
“I swear.”
“How many times did you kiss him?”
Emma looked away.
“Twice.”
“The messages suggest more than twice.”
“Three.”
I waited.
“Maybe four.”
I laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
“Interesting how numbers work when honesty arrives slowly.”
She started crying harder.
“Nothing more happened.”
“Okay.”
“You believe me?”
“Yes.”
Her face changed.
“You do?”
“I don’t need sex for this to matter.”
That was important.
Emma seemed to have built an internal legal system where avoiding intercourse meant the relationship remained salvageable.
I did not share it.
“You said you were with Sophie.”
“I know.”
“Does Sophie know?”
“No.”
“Did you tell Alex that?”
“Yes.”
“I saw.”
Emma covered her eyes.
I continued.
“The black dress night.”
She nodded.
“Client dinner?”
“Alex.”
“The Thursday you came home after midnight?”
“Alex.”
“The conference reception?”
“We were both there.”
“After?”
“We got drinks.”
“The night before last?”
She stopped.
I already knew.
“Dinner.”
“With Alex.”
“Yes.”
“Did you kiss him?”
“Yes.”
That was the message.
Last night was exactly what I needed.
I looked toward the window.
For several seconds, I could not speak.
Emma whispered:
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.”
She stopped.
“Not yet.”
“What?”
“I’m not ready for sorry.”
She looked devastated.
I did not say it to punish her.
I meant it.
An apology was emotionally too advanced for where I was.
We had not even reached the complete truth.
“What were you planning to do during the break?”
Emma sat again.
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I was going to stay with Sophie.”
“And Alex?”
She hesitated.
“I probably would have seen him.”