I’m not crazy. I worked it out in my head over and over. I know what I heard.
I don’t know what you heard, but it wasn’t me.
The man that I relied upon to always have my back, the man that I married when I said I would never get married, the man with whom I had children when I said I would never procreate, was telling me it wasn’t him. I wanted so badly to believe him. But how can a 3 minute and 50 second phone call be wrong. I wished SO badly I had not answered so that it would be recorded. Then I could know for sure if I heard what I knew I had heard.
Maybe he just picked a girl up at a bar, I thought. Maybe she was a hooker with a great sales pitch.
We’re interested in a bottle of wine to start here and take to our room.
It was just too familiar. “The room” would have been better than “our room”. As if better mattered.
The first time we Skyped we turned it to ice. (If you had outages around September 8th blame me. If you have the heart.) He looked like hell. And I was dripping icicles. I could barely make eye contact. I knew right then that I wasn’t going to get anywhere with this unbelievably, holy what? situation while he was traveling. Attempting to do so would be like asking me to willingly endure the placement of 50 spiders of varying breeds all across my strapped down body. Not gonna happen.
“I just want to come home. I want my family back.”
You want us back? Did we go somewhere?
In those first few days after sitting under the full moon I reflected back on his reaction to my “You’re a bastard!” texts and the phone call that froze him in the lobby of some airport hotel. He was beyond tweaked. For an innocent guy that would not be the normal reaction. I know. I checked in with my girls. When I told them he started to cry they said, “Honey, that pocket call was divine intervention.”
In the middle of the night-of-the-pocket-call (4 AM) he texted me this: Oh. I am so sorry you had that experience. I just woke up outa the blue (Yea, right. She probably just hopped off you and you had a moment to spare.) and felt sick to my stomach about what that must have felt like. I love you. I don’t know what you heard, but I know it wasn’t me. I love you and I am sick thinking that I hurt you and I didn’t do anything. I feel like someone hit me with a board out of nowhere when I was just moving forward. This sucks. I feel helpless.
Denial is a crazy thing, isn’t it?