And I know it can’t be, because he isn’t my forever man.
My forever man died.
I screw up my face in tears. Wade.
I’m so sorry.
I haven’t thought about my beautiful husband since Tristan came back into my life. My nightly ritual of going through my day in my mind with him and telling him I love him has fallen by the wayside.
I’ve lain in bed and thought about another man, the same man who’s been downstairs with Wade’s son.
Paris was about fun and finding myself again.
This time it’s different. This time it’s a closeness, a sense of belonging, and it feels a lot like love.
What kind of a wife am I if I can have feelings for someone else so easily?
This is Wade’s house; these are his sons.
Tristan shouldn’t be here.
I shake my head in disgust with myself. I’m just confused. He’s the first man I’ve dated . . . fucked . . . what the hell are we even doing? There are no boundaries.
I need boundaries.
I get a vision of Patrick and Tristan sitting close together on the couch, watching movies and chatting, and my heart constricts.
Wade would have given anything to have watched a movie with Patrick, to know him. To get the chance to tell him that he loved him. I imagine Patrick and how much he would have adored his father. They would have been best friends.
I angrily swipe the tears away, terrified that I won’t be able to stop crying when I need to. For five years I’ve cried here. It’s the only place my kids can’t see that I’m not coping. When the world gets too much, I go to my sadness sanctuary, the place where I can cry alone. I’ve cried buckets of tears in this shower. If the walls could talk, they would tell a very sad story indeed.
I close my eyes and take deep breaths, my ritual to stop the tears.
Breathe in . . . and out. Breathe in . . . and out.
It’s okay. It’s okay . . . stop crying. Stop crying. I shake my hands around and wash my face. I wash my hair and go through the process as I think of other things.
Other things I can deal with; other things don’t hurt.
Nothing could ever hurt as much as losing him.
My eyes fill with tears anew.
Stop it.
I get out, dry myself, and then dress in my pajamas. I put my head around the corner and see that downstairs all is in darkness.
Tristan would be lying on the couch down there, waiting for me to come and say good night.
I can’t.
I don’t want him to see me like this. I’m so fragile that I feel like I’m about to break.
And maybe I am.
I turn off the light, get into bed, and stare up at the ceiling as tears run down my face and into my ears.
I’ve never felt so guilty before. I’ve never done anything to ever feel guilt. I’m having some kind of personal crisis, but . . . it will be better in the morning. Everything is always better in the morning.