"Don't."
One word.
Clear.
Not controlling.
Not ambiguous.
Don't.
I should have stopped.
Instead, I felt challenged.
That is the truth.
I wanted to prove that Simon did not get to make me small.
Except nobody was making me small.
I was using my marriage as the object against which I could perform rebellion.
"It's ten seconds," I said.
"It's nothing."
Liam had come closer.
He looked toward Simon.
There was hesitation in his expression.
I remember that too.
He had an opportunity to be the better friend.
I had an opportunity to be the better wife.
Neither of us took it.
"Just for fun," Liam said.
"Just for fun," I answered.
I put my hands on his chest.
Then I kissed him.
It probably lasted seven or eight seconds.
Maybe ten.
People later disagreed.
The exact number became absurdly important to me for a while.
As if a betrayal had a stopwatch.
The kiss was not deeply passionate.
But it was not a quick peck either.
That mattered.
There was contact.
There was applause.
There was enough time for me to become aware of everyone watching.
And, shamefully, that was what I liked.
Not Liam.
The attention.
The rebellion.
The feeling that for one moment I had become the woman in the room people were watching instead of the woman clearing plates while everyone else laughed.
When we separated, I was smiling.
Then I looked toward Simon's chair.
Empty.
The smile disappeared.
"Where did he go?"
Jessica's expression changed.
"He left."
"When?"
"Right after..."
She did not finish.
I looked toward the door.
A part of me wanted to follow him.
Another part, the louder part, resented that he had turned my moment into something serious.
"He'll cool off," I said.
Jessica nodded too quickly.
"Yeah."
"Obviously."
Liam returned to the bar.
He was quieter afterward.
At the time I interpreted that as Simon's mood ruining the evening.
Now I suspect Liam already knew we had crossed a line.
The party continued.
Sort of.
People drank.
Someone changed the music.
Jessica opened gifts.
But the energy had fractured.
Several people avoided my eyes.
Others overcompensated.
"You're brave."
"Simon needs to loosen up."
"It's not like you slept with Liam."
Those comments were oxygen to me.
I inhaled every one.
I called Simon once around eleven-thirty.
Voicemail.
I did not leave a message.
Then, instead of going home immediately, I stayed another forty-five minutes.
That decision became important to Simon.
He later told me the kiss hurt.
The extra hour told him I cared more about proving it did not matter than about whether he was hurting.
I arrived home shortly after midnight.
The kitchen light was on.
Simon sat at the table fully dressed.
His jacket hung over the back of the chair.
His phone rested facedown in front of him.
I tried to sound casual because somewhere in me I knew the alternative was admitting fear.