Page 115 of Not a Word

“What about now?” Leah asked. “I mean, what sort of future do we have? Do things just keep going on the way they’ve been going?”

Brent had no answer for that. He knew Leah wanted more of a commitment. She’d reached a time in her life where she craved stability, and an affair with a married man didn’t offer that.

Was leaving Catherine even an option? The very thought filled him with dread. Not so much the emotional toll it would take, although that would be considerable, but it was all the other issues. The house, their assets. Trying to explain it to their grown sons.

Given how much this issue was on Leah’s mind, he shouldn’t have been surprised when she rang his doorbell this Friday morning.

“Leah,” he said when he saw her standing on the front stoop. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk,” she said. “I remembered you saying today was Catherine’s arts group lunch or whatever. Don’t worry, I parked down the street.”

“You’ve caught me by surprise.” Leah had never been to his home. He was unsure how to handle her presence here.

“Are you going to let me just stand out here?” she asked.

Leaving her on the doorstep where neighbors might see her was not an option. Brent opened the door wide, admitting her, then closed it.

She stepped inside, scanned the spacious living room, the art on the walls, the high-end furniture. “You have a lovely home.”

The observation embarrassed him. He might have lived many years in anguish, but his creature comforts far outstripped hers.

She shook her head. “This won’t take long.”

He motioned for her to settle into a living room chair but she held her spot near the door.

“What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

But he knew.

“I can’t do this any longer,” she said. “I can’t be . . . that woman. The one on the side, the one whose bills you pay, the one who’s sitting around waiting, wondering if this is the day you’ll decide to come over, but never spend the night. I have to be able to look myself in the mirror. I didn’t have much before I met you, but I had my self-respect. I need that back.”

“Leah, Leah, come on. It’s not like that. I care about—”

“I need more than care. I can’t survive on care.” Her eyes were welling up. “You say you care about me, but I love you. And that can’t work one way. If it’s one way, then I’m out.”

Brent perched himself on the stairs, looking down at his feet, thinking.

“Say something,” Leah said. “Or don’t. It doesn’t matter. If you have nothing to say then I’ll just—”

“I’ll leave her,” he said, raising his head and looking at Leah.

“What?”

“I’ll do it. I’ll end it.” He managed a broken smile. “I’ll leave her.”

Leah had her hand over her mouth, afraid to be happy. She managed to say, “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it. Don’t tease me. Don’t give me false hope.”

He stood, took her in his arms, put his mouth to her ear, and whispered, “I mean it. I love you. I want to be happy again.”

And then his mouth was on hers, and within minutes, they were upstairs in the master bedroom, the first time they had ever made love here, and maybe, Brent thought, it would be the last, because when Catherine came home he would tell her. He would tell her he was leaving her, that he would move out, that he would give her the house, that he would give her whatever she wanted because all he needed was his freedom. And he’d assure her the dark secret that had somehow bound them together long past their marriage’s expiry date would never come to light.

Maybe, just maybe, she’d been longing to start over too.

That could be a naive hope, but in this moment, he was a little starry-eyed, not seeing how difficult the path ahead would likely be.

But fuck it, damn the torpedoes.

It was not a furious bout of lovemaking. They were, after all, not kids anymore. But it was tender and heartfelt and it marked what they believed was a new beginning.