Page 3 of Faithless

“That’s for sure.”

I frown. When I glance up at him, his wild eyes don’t match his hard, judgmental tone. He’s scared. I can feel his fear vibrating in the air between us.

I glance at the wire trash can by the bookshelf, my eyes drawn to the crumpled paper at the top. Harshly crumpled. Mark has strong hands. Was he angry when he crumpled that paper? Was he thinking about how much time he’s wasted not wanting to disrupt this toxic symbiotic life we’ve built? Maybe he wants this divorce too, deep down.

“This will be good for you,” I say. “You’ll finally be happy.”

“No, I won’t.” He’s nearly yelling now. “And you won’t be either. This is a mistake.”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Give me an opportunity to turn things around. To change. I can change if that’s what you want.”

My brow furrows. Did he really just say that? The words were so perfunctory…

He doesn’t want a divorce, but not because he’s afraid of losing me. He doesn’t want a divorce because of how it will disrupt his life.

I can’t be sympathetic anymore.

“You need to find your own lawyer,” I say. “And start looking for another place to live.”

As if from a faraway distance, I hear Mark slam the door.

* * *

Mark

* * *

Oh God.

It’s really happening.

I rush to my office closet and yank open the cabinet drawer. I take only a moment to find the bottle of Macallan I had stored for a rainy day. Maybe even for this moment in particular, because I’d known how much I’d need it.

I’ve always feared this would happen, especially in those first few months when she made her little announcement and destroyed my life. I knew the way I treated her was not sustainable, that eventually her guilt would fade and she’d leave me.

Which is why I go out of my way to make myself essential to her in every way I can. I take care of her. I make sure that I meet her every need, except for the emotional ones. I make sure that the kids are taken care of. I always thought that if I can do that, I can buy myself the time I need to forgive her.

I haven’t forgiven her yet. I can’t say I’ve worked very hard to achieve it. Over the years, I’ve become more and more complacent, and that’s my downfall. The longer she stayed with me, and especially after the times she caught me red-handed with other women, the more my anxiety eased. I felt a false confidence that I had her for good.

That confidence allowed me to hold on to my anger.

I love this anger.

Something about it delights me. It’s strange and twisted that sometimes I even fantasize about what it was like when she had her little affair. Mental images of it make my skin hot and my jaw clench, and the angry spewing thoughts that follow provide their own perverse pleasure.

Then again, I can only imagine them together before they slip behind a closed door. I can picture their dinners out, her stupid texts to him, and their Facebook messages, but once my imagination takes me into an intimate moment, my delightful anger cools to ice. My skin grows clammy and my stomach churns.

Thinking about it makes me want to die, even all these years later.

I know it’s irrational. I’ve fucked countless women since she made her little confession. A reasonable man who wants to keep his wife—as I did from the beginning, never even contemplating the idea of divorce—would have tried to resolve this long ago. He would go to marriage counseling. Work on communication, talk about what happened, and move past it.

I always knew my resentful temperament would be the end of me someday. And look what’s happening.

I’m losing everything.

Even when a part of me hates her, something deeper inside knows that hatred comes from love. Deep, agonizing love that even the most euphoric hatred can’t overcome. She’s everything I ever wanted in a woman. Even now, when she’s cold and distant with me, when all her warmth is for the children. Even when I only get to experience that warmth through proximity, it’s still better than its absence.

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