"Don't." This was a warning, and it sounded like one. "Don't you dare say that to me right now."
"But I do," he insisted, taking another half-step forward. Desperation oozed off of him. "I love you, I've always loved you, this was just?—"
"We were trying for a baby."
The words stopped him cold.
"We've been trying for a baby," I continued. "Or I have, anyway. I don't know what the fuck you've been doing."
His face fell.
"Tell me something, Matt." I leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. "When you're with me—when you're touching me, kissing me, fucking me—who are you thinking about? Are you even there? Or are you with her in your head?"
"No, I—" he started, voice breaking.
"You know what?" I cut him off. "I don't even care. I don't want to know."
He stared at me, mouth still open, the answer dying on his lips.
"Because it doesn’t matter,” I said. "Whether you were thinking about her or me or nobody at all, it doesn’t change what you did. You made a choice. And then you kept making it. With every text you sent her, with every condom you bought, with every time you found a way to make yourself available to her. "
"I'm sorry."
"Stop saying that."
"But I am." His voice rose, desperate and insistent. "I am so fucking sorry. I really didn't want anything at first. I just… Ijust wanted to help her. She was struggling, and I thought I was being a good friend, you know? Just listening. Supporting her."
I didn't interrupt. I just watched him.
"And then…" He ran both hands through his hair, gripping it like he wanted to pull it out. "Then she texted me one night. Late. She and Bryan had this huge fight, and she was drunk and at some bar downtown, and she needed a ride because she didn't want to drive. So I went. I picked her up. And we just… we sat in the car talking for like an hour, and she was crying, and I was just trying to comfort her, and then…"
He stopped and swallowed hard.
"I don't know how it happened," he said quietly. "Maybe I was lonely too. Maybe I was looking for something, I don't know. But it just… it happened. And then it kept happening. And I know that's not an excuse, I know it's fucked up, but I didn't plan any of this. I didn't want to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you."
The words cut the space between us cleanly, and neither of us moved to close it.
I let the silence stretch, let him stand there with all his excuses and half-formed justifications and that tired, pathetic I-don’t-know-how-it-happened routine he’d probably rehearsed just in case.
"Please." His voice cracked again. "Please, we can… we can fix this. I know we can. I've been good to you, haven't I? We've been good together. We can work through this, we can go to counseling, we can?—"
Something inside me snapped.
"That's your fucking problem, Matt." I sounded vicious. Ifeltvicious. "You try too fucking hard to be good. You're so goddamn good to people that when Angela had a fight with her husband, you dropped everything to play hero. Poor Angela needed a ride. Poor Angela needed someone to talk to. Poor Angela neededcomforting. And you… you just couldn't help yourself, could you? Had to be the good guy. The savior. The shoulder to cry on."
He flinched like I'd hit him.
"And where did that get you?" I continued. "Where did being good get us? You were so busy being good to her that you forgot to be faithful to me."
"That's not?—"
"I don't care about good anymore," I said, voice dropping to something cold and final. "Good doesn't mean shit when you're fucking someone else."
His face went white.
"Good is what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night," I said. "Good is the excuse you use when you're too weak to say no. You weren't good, Matt. You were selfish. You wanted to feel needed, wanted to feel important, and you didn't care what it cost me."
I pushed off the counter and walked past him to where I'd left my purse by the door.
