Page 69 of Such a Good Wife

I walk over to him in the darkness and try to touch his shoulder, but he pulls away from me and moves to the other side of the kitchen island. We stare at one another across it.

“I’m so sorry. I’m...it was such a mistake, and there is nothing I can say to you to justify it. I know you must hate me.”

“Well, maybe you should try.”

“What?”

“Maybe the least you could do is try...to justify it. Explain why you would do this to me—to us.”

Tears flood my eyes, and I know the last thing he wants is to have to comfort me, and the last thing I want is pity, but I can’t control them.

“I was weak and so, so fucking stupid. I don’t know why. I can’t believe it was really me that did it, that allowed it to go so far, and I don’t expect you to ever trust me again. Or forgive me, but I am more sorry than you’ll ever know. And I love you, and it killed me that I knew I was hurting you even though that sounds so selfish and contradictory, I know, but I do love you.” I sob uncontrollably.

He doesn’t move from the other side of the kitchen island. He runs his hands through his hair and blows out the air from his lungs in an exasperated exhale.

“I paid him a visit, out there in his big rented mansion. That stupid son of a bitch, I went out there to talk to him.”

“No,” I whimper, not wanting to know the rest.

“He welcomed me in, knew who I was right away.”

“Collin, no. Why didn’t you confront me? Why did you go to him?”

But he just continues his story.

“He offered me a drink. He has a pretty good collection of scotch on display in the upstairs study, so we went up, civilized, and shared a scotch on the balcony. He told me he was sorry, but that he was in love with you, and he couldn’t promise me to leave you alone if that’s what I was there about. That if you wanted to stop, that would be up to you.”

“When? Collin. What night did you go over there?” The panic is rising, and my breathing is quick and shallow.

“September 20,” he says in a hushed voice, and then sits back at the table and looks at the wall.

“No. Please God. Noooo. That can’t—that’s not possible! You were here. I left his place. I went to cut things off, I swear to God I did, and came home and you were here, playing with Ben. He was crying, I remember. He hit you in the lip and he was saying he was sorry. I remember exactly. You can’t—no.”

“You assumed he was crying and saying he was sorry because he hit my lip by accident and was upset that he hurt me. I let you believe that. The cut was from Luke punching me. Ben was crying about something else. I don’t even remember, he talked back or something and then got punished and whatever...I was there at Luke’s before you. I went straight after work that day.”

“I don’t believe you. There’s no way this is happening. I thought...”

“It was an accident. Whatever you’re thinking right now, it was an accident. I had no weapon. I went over to talk to him. Let him know I knew and to stop seeing you.”

Now his face streams with tears and an agonizing sob escapes his throat, and I’m doubled over in my chair with my head between my knees, bawling, trying to control my breathing, trying not to scream.

“Oh my God,” I cry. I was so sure it was Joe and Val and that we could finally get out from under this and move on with our lives. The call Val got at the motel could have been anyone, not Joe conspiring with her. The woman Lacy saw Joe with certainly could have been any woman in town. I was so certain of Joe’s guilt, I’d strung all of these happenstances together in my mind and created a narrative. I was so sure. It seems impossible that Joe really was just doing his job and following real leads. He’s just having an affair with Val like he is with everyone else in town. They were just meeting before a charity event, probably for dinner, quick sex. My head floats, dizzy and airy, and I’m nearly hyperventilating. Collin tells me the rest through tears and the details ground me again, force me to breathe in and out, controlled, slowly. The kids can’t hear this. We need to be careful.

“After he said that he refused to leave you alone, he said you were actually thinking of going away with him to Italy, that you loved him and he was sorry, but I’d just have to deal with reality. I threw my scotch in his face.” He stands, paces, then leans against the wall and looks at his feet.

“Jesus.” I gaze at the ceiling and breathe in short spurts, in through my nose and out through an exaggerated O shape I make with my mouth. I know the scotch collection he’s referring to, and next to it, the balcony overlooking the pool. It’s impossible to imagine them out there together. They exist in two completely separate worlds in my mind.

“He punched me after I threw the drink and told me to get out. We fought. I swung back, and he lunged at me, so I pushed him.” Collin stops a moment and wipes tears away. “To protect myself. He was coming full force, so I just—I pushed him to get him off me, and he fell backward. He fell over the rail and...” Collin doesn’t finish. I know the rest.

“The dark SUV fleeing the scene was my 4Runner. I’m sure of it.” He slides down the wall and sits on the floor, cradling his head in his hands.

“No one saw it up close,” I point out. I suddenly find my shock and rage turning into protectiveness. I’ve underestimated my husband this whole time, thinking he was naive, in the dark about it all. He was trying to let me handle it myself, and then, when I didn’t, he was trying to protect our family.

“What?” he asks.

“It was an accident.”

“Yes. Yes! It was, I swear,” he says, almost pleadingly.

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