The ride back felt like a procession to a grave. Jake’s disappointment filled the back seat. Once home, Michael sent him upstairs. Then he sat on the sofa, lit a cigarette—one he had quit years earlier for me—and studied me through the haze.
“How long?” His calm voice terrified me more than shouting would have.
“I’m sorry,” I sobbed, kneeling before him. “I was wrong.”
“I asked how long.”
“Three months,” I whispered. “But it wasn’t physical at first. We just talked.”
“Enough.” He crushed the cigarette. “Two options. We divorce. You leave with nothing, and everyone knows why. Or we stay married—but from now on, we are roommates. Nothing more.”
I stared at him.
“Jake has a future. I won’t let this destroy it. And a divorce won’t help your career either. So. The second option?”
“I agree,” I said quietly.
He carried his pillows and blanket into the living room and made the couch his bed.
