I asked Julian what he thought the kiss meant. He leaned back. "Bree, I think we got carried away. We've always had chemistry." I asked whether he wanted to be with me. For the first time since our renewed contact, his confidence faltered. He said he cared about me but didn't want to rush from one complicated situation into another. He wasn't ready for a serious relationship, he added, especially not one beginning under such public circumstances. I reminded him of the messages, the nights he had said he could never forget me, the way he had asked whether I'd ever wondered what our lives might have been.
"Of course I've wondered," he said. "Wondering doesn't mean I had a plan." He reached for my hand, but I moved it beneath the table. "I didn't ask you to kiss me in front of your husband," he continued, and there it was: the narrow escape route he had left himself all along. He had encouraged me, certainly, and he had enjoyed the moment. But I had been the one who turned toward Julian and demanded to be made young again. I wanted to blame him for letting me, and I could not make that blame sound convincing even in my own head.
When I stood to leave, Julian asked if we could still talk once things settled down. I looked at him across the small table, at the expensive watch and the easy smile that had once made an entire summer seem enchanted. I realized that the man I had put my marriage at risk for had not imagined an ordinary Tuesday with me. He wanted the versions of us that existed at the edges of our actual lives, where there were no hard conversations or grocery lists and no one had to stay after the thrill was gone. He had never asked what it would be like to take care of my father after surgery, or sit with me through a difficult winter, or share a household after the music stopped.
"No," I told him. "I don't think we can." He looked offended, as if refusing him access to me were unnecessary punishment for a situation we both regretted. I walked outside before he could talk me out of the decision. In the parking lot, I deleted our conversation, then felt a sickening twist of panic. Deleting the messages didn't undo them. It only made it harder to tell the truth about what they had contained. When I got home, I found that I could still recall almost every sentence I had written to him.