“Hey,” I say quickly, rushing out of the bed. The sheets slide to the floor as I close the distance between us. I pull her into my arms before she can pull away.
She fits there easily, warm and familiar. Her forehead presses into my chest, and I can feel her heart racing. I love her. I know that much. That part has never been a question. “I can see a doctor,” I say softly. “Maybe get something prescribed that can help?”
She goes still. Then her shoulders start to shake. “Oh,” she whispers, turning her face fully into my chest. It takes a second for it to register that she’s crying. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” I lift her chin gently, so she has to look at me. Her lashes are wet, her cheeks damp. “I should be the one saying that. I never meant to hurt you.”
She takes a shaky breath, her lips trembling as she tries to steady herself. “I know, that’s what makes this so difficult.” She looks away, her gaze fixing somewhere over my shoulder. “Last week when I called you, I was a little tipsy and in the mood,” she says. “I thought we could fool around on the phone. But the way you answered and said you were tired . . . I felt disregarded.”
My stomach clenches.
She pauses, swallowing hard. I already know this isn’t going anywhere good. I can feel it settling deep in my gut. “Austin came here,” she starts, her voice flat and distant. “One thing led to another, and . . .” Suddenly, the room feels too quiet and too still. “I’m sorry,” she adds.
I take a deep breath. I know I should be angry. I should feel something explosive. Rage. Hurt. Anything. Instead, all I feel is a dull kind of indifference.
“It’s okay.” My voice steady even though I don’t know why. “I’m barely here. It’s understandable that you might feel lonely.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve said the wrong thing.
She pulls out of my arms and stares at me like she doesn’t recognise the person standing in front of her. Her brows pull together, confusion flashing across her face. Then she lets out a harsh laugh. “Unbelievable. I just told you I slept with someone, and all you have to say is that you understand?”
“Sandra,” I try, helpless now, my hands hanging uselessly at my sides. “We can work it out. Maybe see a couple’s therapist or something.”
“Or something,” she mutters, shaking her head. “No, Roland. I want you to say it’s not okay. That you cannot bear another man touching me. I want you to break down and demand why I would do that to you.”
I stare at her, my thoughts slow and tangled. I shake my head, like maybe I missed something obvious. “You want me to be pissed at you?”
“No,” she says, already turning away. She walks into our walk-in closet, her voice barely carrying back to me. “There’s no point.”
I stand there, frozen, watching her disappear between rows of clothes we once picked out together. The room feels even more hollow now.
She is right, I should be furious. I should be shouting, slamming doors, demanding answers. But I can’t force myself to care about the betrayal itself.
And if I don’t care that my wife stepped out on me, then what does that really say about our marriage?
2
AUSTIN
—Wish I Had The Why
by Shelley Fraley
I am going to die.
And I’m not even being overdramatic—no matter how many times people have told me I am. This is real. I’m pretty sure this is how it ends for me. I can’t believe Sandra opened her big mouth and told her husband we fucked. Okay, her mouth isn’t big. It’s actually kind of cute, which makes this worse somehow, because how can something that cute lie without remorse?
I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m fully supportive of their sex positivity and their open marriage. Good for them. Love that for them. But why mentionmyname when I didn’t do anything with her?
And now her husband probably hates me. He might even punch me without knowing he’s reacting based on bad information. Oh God, I’m going to be stuck with him all summer, playing for Nigeria in the World Cup. Yeah, I know he’ll be at goalpost, but how am I supposed to play on the same field as him when I have to keep watching my back?
“Why did you have to give him my name though?” I squeak out. “And why would it even matter who you slept with when you’re in an open marriage? You could’ve hypothetically slept withanyone, that’s the point of an open marriage!”
I had laughed when Sandra rushed into my house earlier, tossing over her shoulder that she had told her husband we had sex. I fully believed she was joking; I still kind of think she is. Or maybe I want it to be a joke because the alternative is unacceptable. I would have to leave Lagos, to disappear from Nigeria as a whole, and hope our teams don’t meet in the premier league.
The water running behind the bathroom door stops and I barely have time to brace myself before the door opens and Sandra steps out. Any hope I have that she’s kidding flies out the window when I see her face looking pale and the tightness around her mouth.
She really did tell Johnson we slept together. And I might actually be in trouble.
