For months I claimed work had "almost disciplined me" because of Simon's reaction.
That was not true.
Linda closed the door and said:
"I don't care what adults do at private parties."
I blinked.
"Then why am I here?"
"Because half the office has spent the morning discussing your personal life instead of working."
"That's not my fault."
"No."
"And I'm not saying it is."
She folded her hands.
"But several people from this company attended the party, and your Facebook comments this morning are already being shared internally."
I had forgotten about those.
Earlier, irritated by the whispering, I had posted:
Funny how one harmless moment at a party turns you into a villain. Some people need to learn the difference between fun and actual betrayal. No regrets. Life is short.
Linda continued:
"I'm not disciplining you for your marriage."
"I'm telling you to keep personal disputes out of work channels and not involve coworkers in taking sides."
"I haven't."
"Jessica forwarded your message asking people to explain what they saw if anyone asked."
My face warmed.
That had not sounded bad when I sent it.
Now it did.
Linda's tone softened.
"Evanthy, whatever happened between you and Simon is yours."
"But you're angry."
"And when people are angry, they sometimes create records they later wish did not exist."
I left her office furious.
At Linda.
At Simon.
At gossip.
At everyone except myself.
That evening, I doubled down.
I edited the Facebook post instead of deleting it.
Added:
I know my own marriage better than spectators do.
My mother called within thirty minutes.
"Evanthy Marie."
Whenever Lenore used my middle name, I knew we were beyond casual conversation.
"Delete it."
"Mom."
"Delete the post."
"Why is everyone obsessed with this?"
"Because you're making it public."
"It already is public."
"Then stop feeding it."
"It was one kiss."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"I also know your husband told you not to do it and you did it anyway."
"You sound like Margaret."
"I don't care what Margaret sounds like."
My mother took a breath.
"Are you sorry Simon is hurt?"
The question irritated me.
"I'm sorry he's choosing to make it this huge thing."
"That is not what I asked."
"Mom—"
"Are you sorry you hurt him?"
Silence.
I finally said:
"I didn't mean to."
"That isn't the same answer."
I hung up shortly afterward.
Then told myself my own mother had turned against me.
Simon slept at his parents' house Monday night.
He told June he was helping Grandpa Paul with some things.
Tuesday night he came home for dinner and homework.
After June went upstairs, I confronted him.
"How long are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"Sleeping somewhere else."
"I don't know."
"This is punishment."
"No."
"Then what is it?"
"Space."
"You keep saying that."
"Because that's what it is."
I followed him into the kitchen while he loaded plates into the dishwasher.
"You cannot blow up our family because I kissed somebody for ten seconds."
He stopped.
"Do you know what bothers me most?"
"What?"
"The kiss isn't even first anymore."
I stared at him.
"What does that mean?"