Nashville. They had been involved since March. He had told her I wouldn't file. The list looked cold and inadequate, but writing it steadied me. I wasn't gathering ammunition for some public humiliation. I was protecting myself against the fog that descends when a person you love begins revising the truth in real time.
By seven, I'd called Leah. She listened, asked whether I had any safety concerns, and said she was sorry. When I mentioned that Ryan was my business partner, her voice sharpened. “That's a separate set of legal risks,” she said. “Don't confront him alone if you think the conversation will become volatile, and don't remove or alter company records. You'll need a business attorney to review the operating agreement and the expense questions. I can refer you to someone.”
“Can I keep him out of the company?”
“Maybe temporarily from certain systems, depending on the agreement and his role. But the fact that he betrayed you personally doesn't automatically extinguish his ownership. We'll keep the divorce and business disputes legally distinct, even though the facts overlap.”
That distinction frustrated me. In my head, Ryan had forfeited everything the moment he slept with my wife. In the law, he was still a member of an LLC with a contract that granted him rights. Leah reminded me that anger was not a substitute for process. I knew she was right, and I also hated that she was right.
At eight fifteen, Ryan called. I let it ring, then answered on the fourth attempt because I wanted to hear what kind of man he would choose to be when he finally knew he couldn't hide.
“Dan,” he said. “I heard Natalie came back.”
“You did.”
“She's pretty upset.”
“Did she tell you why?”
He inhaled audibly. “Look, I know things are complicated. Maybe we should meet somewhere neutral and talk.”
“Did you know she was planning to tell me she wanted to date other men?”
A pause. “She mentioned she was taking some time.”
“Did you go to Nashville?”
“Daniel—”
“Did you stay with my wife?”
He was silent long enough that I could hear someone speaking faintly in the background. Finally he said, “I didn't plan for any of this to happen.”
It was almost exactly what Natalie had said. I wondered whether they'd been practicing their language together. “I have one question for you,” I said. “On the day you brought me coffee and told me not to make permanent decisions, were you already sleeping with her?”
“Listen, man, it wasn't black and white.”
“It is for the question I asked.”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes. “And when you asked whether she'd called, whether she'd taken her ring, whether I was going to wait—were you reporting the answers back to her?”
“I was trying to keep the situation from exploding.”
“You were helping it continue.”
“That's not fair.”
There it was again, the familiar phrase that meant the injured person was expected to adjust the conversation until the person who had done the hurting felt more comfortable. I looked out the kitchen window at the empty bird feeder. My voice came out steadier than I felt.
“I know about Cincinnati and Nashville being billed to Oak & Stone.”