"People say things when they're annoyed."
"And people are allowed to take those things seriously."
She began speaking quickly, the way she did when she thought speed might overcome a fact. She said she had been tired of explaining herself, that I had been distant lately, that Adrian was only an old friend, that everybody at the club had been part of a group. The explanations changed direction every few sentences, but they had one thing in common: none included an apology for using our marriage as a threat.
"I want to meet and talk," I said. "Not right now. Tomorrow, somewhere neutral."
"Why can't you come home?"
"Because every conversation we've had in that kitchen lately ends with me agreeing that my feelings were the problem. I need space to hear myself think."
"You're making me sound like a monster."
"I'm telling you what happened to me. Those are different things."
She gave a dry laugh, and I could almost see the familiar look on her face. "You always know how to sound reasonable. Do you rehearse this stuff?"
A year earlier that would have sent me into a long defense of my intentions. Instead, I told her that I would text her a time and place for the next day. When I ended the call, my hands were trembling, but my mind felt strangely clear. It occurred to me that I had spent so long trying to make my wife believe my pain was legitimate that I had forgotten I already knew it was.
At work, the news did not arrive as a dramatic announcement. I drove to our office in Secaucus, answered emails, reviewed a construction schedule, and argued with a supplier over a delayed delivery. At ten, a junior engineer named Priya stopped by my desk to ask whether a revised drawing had been approved. I answered, and then I stared at the drawing for almost a minute after she left because I couldn't remember what we'd discussed.
My manager, Luis Ortega, noticed. He was fifty-two, broad-shouldered, and unusually skilled at knowing when to ask a question and when to leave a man alone. He'd hired me years earlier, and we'd worked through flooded basements, budget overruns, and one miserable winter when three emergency jobs had landed at once.
"Everything okay at home?" he asked from my doorway.
I looked at my desk and considered saying I hadn't slept. "Not really. My wife and I are separating, I think."
Luis didn't make a sympathetic face for an audience. He stepped inside, closed the door halfway, and pulled up a chair. "I'm sorry, Dan. Take Friday if you need it. Priya and I can handle the inspection."