Masey

Last October, Masey had been telling you how much she loved you, sending messages about missing you and wanting to come home to you. You remember because, after she finally admitted what happened, you went back through those conversations looking for some indication that you'd misunderstood the kind of marriage you were living in. There was nothing unusual in them. That was what made them so difficult to read. One night that month, a coworker drove her home. Somewhere along the way, she did him a favor in the front seat of his car, something she'd never done for you. She still sees him at work, where they spend their days close enough to speak as if nothing happened. You can't stop imagining how ordinary that must feel to her, how she can walk into work each morning and see the man who now occupies a place in your thoughts that you never wanted anyone else to have. You might never have learned the truth if she hadn't fallen out with a friend she'd confided in. When the friend threatened to expose her, Masey told you herself, though you couldn't stop wondering what she'd have done if he'd kept quiet. She cried when she explained how neglected she'd felt. You listened because you loved her, even while some part of you recoiled at the ease with which she'd carried on loving you in messages while keeping this from you. Now you're in therapy, trying to understand how a marriage can feel better and worse at the same time. Masey reaches for your hand afterward and says, "I feel like I'm falling in love with you all over again." She sounds sincere. That's the problem. You want to believe her, but the words remind you of October, when you believed you knew where you stood. At home that evening, you find her watching you from the kitchen doorway. "Are we ever going to be okay again?" she asks. You want to answer. Instead, you wonder whether she means the marriage, or whether she means the version of herself she needs you to believe in.