The first time I realized I had started withholding things from him, it was almost laughably insignificant. I had spent more than we agreed on a weekend trip with friends and told him the hotel was running a promotion. He discovered the actual charge while balancing our account, and he asked why I had lied. Instead of admitting I was embarrassed, I accused him of policing me. We made up before bed, but I remembered how effective anger had been at moving the discussion away from what I had done. It was a habit I would practice until it felt like a personality trait.
Julian came back into my life in January, six months before the cookout. He sent a photograph of a stretch of the promenade after a winter snowfall and wrote, Remember when we thought this was the most beautiful place on earth? I should have answered politely, or perhaps not at all. Instead, I sent a picture from our honeymoon weekend, taken near the same railing, carefully cropped so Nolan was not visible. Julian replied, Still the prettiest girl on the boardwalk. I told myself it was harmless to enjoy a compliment from someone who remembered me before bills and deadlines and shared grocery lists.
Our messages became a daily routine. We talked about the years since high school, the people who had moved away, the ridiculous hairstyles we wore, and the old coffee shop that had become a boutique. Julian worked in commercial real estate and traveled often between Philadelphia and South Jersey. He told me the women he dated wanted his connections more than his company. I told him my husband was a good man but that sometimes our lives felt too predictable. It was easier to confess unhappiness to a former boyfriend who had no responsibility to help me fix it.
Julian started sending voice notes late at night. I listened through earbuds while Nolan read in bed, then claimed I was catching up on a work podcast. Julian said he missed the reckless way I used to laugh. He asked whether Nolan knew how lucky he was. I answered, Only when I remind him, and added a laughing emoji. The line felt like a joke. It was also a small betrayal, one of many that required no physical contact.
In March, Julian and I had coffee at a place outside town. I chose it because none of my colleagues went there, although I said the location was more convenient for him. He hugged me longer than necessary, told me I looked exactly the same, and asked whether I was happy. I answered with a rehearsed list of things that were going well: our house, my job, Nolan's work, our plans to repaint the guest room. Julian smiled and said, "That's not what I asked." I remember feeling seen by the question, even though Nolan had asked me the same thing repeatedly during the winter and I had told him he was being dramatic.