Page 70 of Chasing the Other Woman

The bracelet is still there.

Nothing breaks. Nothing heals all at once either.

I sit there until my breathing steadies.

I sleep in our bed because I’m too tired to do anything else.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

The truth is uglier. I sleep there because the sheets still hold the faintest trace of Sam’s shampoo, and I am apparently not above letting that wreck me in private.

I wake before sunrise reaching for her.

My hand slides across cool cotton and finds nothing.

For one stupid second, my body hasn’t caught up. It expects warmth. Her shoulder. Her hair tickling my arm. The grumble she makes when my alarm goes off too early, followed by the way she always ends up curling closer even while complaining.

Then the room comes into focus.

Empty pillow.

Quiet house.

Bracelet tight around my wrist.

I lie there with my hand on her side of the bed and let the truth settle its full weight on my chest.

She may never sleep here again.

She may never come through the mudroom kicking off wet boots. May never stand in this bathroom brushing her teeth while glaring at some weather model on her phone. May never sit cross-legged on this bed brushing her hair out and making jokes about how I primp too much after a shower.

She may stay in Muncie.

She may build something there that has nothing to do with Storm Posse. Emergency preparedness. Response systems. Sirens that work when people need them. Something that makes people look at her and say her name without attaching mine to it first.

She may move farther than that.

Two thousand miles. Another state. Another life.

Someday, some other man might know which side of the bed she takes. Some other man might hear her laugh in a kitchen I’ve never stood in. Some other man might get to put his hand at the small of her back because she chose him, and I’ll have no right to hate him for being chosen.

My hand closes around the sheet.

The pain is so sharp I have to sit up.

The old part of me wants to do something. Make a plan. Find the road that gets me around the damage. Call her, show up, explain better, give more, fix more. Push hard enough and maybe the future bends back into the shape I want.

That’s the part of me that cost her two years.

I swing my feet to the floor.

Sunlight is starting to thin the darkness around the curtains. The room looks ordinary in it. Dust on the dresser. A laundry basket in the corner. The tin still open beside me with nothing inside it now.

Sam’s life does not exist to keep me from hurting.

It's the truth, but I'd be lying if I said I liked it.

There’s nothing noble about it. Nothing peaceful. It feels like standing still while the sky turns green and every instinct in my body screams at me to move.