My Wife Is Missing(31)
Mother of the year, chided a voice in her head. But then she remembered: I’m keeping them alive. I’m doing this for a purpose. She knew the truth about Michael. Some secrets changed everything. It was like she’d taken a bite of the forbidden apple: one taste and there was no going back to the garden, ever again.
What she’d done was right. She had no choice. They had to run.
With bouncing steps, Addie and Bryce headed for the slushie machine, but Natalie called them back.
“We’ll get the drinks on our way out,” she said firmly. “First, we’ve got shopping to do.”
CHAPTER 14
MICHAEL
Morning sun splashed into the bedroom, rousing Michael from a fitful night’s sleep. He had drifted off, hoping for a different outcome before daybreak—a phone call or text message, something from Natalie that would bring an end to his nightmare. No such luck. He got up. Showered. Shaved. He didn’t want to look scraggly when he broke the news to Nat’s parents. The thought of that visit was already filling him with dread.
The day was going to be an eventful one, so Michael fortified himself by forcing down some scrambled eggs and toast. The coffee tasted bitter and failed to vanquish his lingering fatigue.
He asked himself: Is this how Natalie felt all the time?
Regrets hit him like punches.
I should have been more attentive. Done more to help. I should have known she was teetering. We should have doubled the marriage counseling.
Three things.
Today I got us all packed and ready to go.
I wish I’d done this sooner.
I’m grateful for the truth.
On the kitchen island, Michael placed the note he’d found in Nat’s shoebox. Grateful for the truth. She’d found out. Dammit. Damn him. He’d been unfaithful to his wife, deceitful, and Natalie knew, Lord help him, she knew the truth. Sort of. He prayed with all his heart that she hadn’t learned all the facts. A flash of blood hit Michael, his mind seeing what he’d never forget, and what he now feared Natalie had discovered.
Michael finished the breakfast dishes while ruminating on the excuses he’d used to justify his affair: they’d gone months without sex (really without physical intimacy of any kind); Natalie blamed work pressures, but he thought the children had become more important than the marriage; then he fell prey to temptation which roused Natalie’s suspicions and started the sleep difficulties that only grew worse.
By then Michael had felt trapped in his lies. He was desperately lonely in his marriage, in his life. He lived a grand fa?ade, an illusion. How many nights had he touched Natalie’s shoulder, only to feel her shrug away, reject him? It happened with such frequency that approaching her felt like navigating a minefield.
Life became a grind. Work. Kids. Dinner. Rinse and repeat. The less Natalie slept, the more she pushed Michael away. Marriage took work, a lot more than he’d bargained for when he said “I do.” Unhappiness and dissatisfaction with a spouse was as common as a cold. But still, it wasn’t like he’d struck up a conversation with another woman thinking he’d end up in her bed.
It was innocuous, he told himself, in the beginning, back at the start of it all. Eye contact leading to a smile, leading to an offhand comment about the dearth of free weights on the bar; a little self-deprecating humor that allowed him to seem endearing instead of creepy.
When next he saw her at the gym, Michael didn’t feel any great connection between them. The clouds didn’t part, no golden ray of sunshine lit her like a spotlight—it was not a This is your path, Michael kind of thing. No, it was a slow burn, with the eye contact lingering a beat longer, his smile growing deeper, hers a little more welcoming.
They talked about fitness. Obviously it was a shared interest, given where they met. The third time he saw her, Michael felt comfortable correcting her form on the tricep pushdown. She thanked him. The next day, she corrected his squat, letting him know to put more of his weight back into his heels. Soon after, they were working out together, and he felt an unexpected chemistry. Conveniently, he kept his wedding ring in his gym bag, and the gym bag in his locker, so the subject of his marriage didn’t come up.
Not immediately anyway.
After a month or so of pumping iron, stirring the endorphins, it was a natural progression that the conversation turned more personal. Michael found it easy to open up to her about his marital struggles—the lack of intimacy, of touch of any kind—that sat at the center of his frustration and sadness.
Laura. That’s what he called her, his wife.
It felt strange not to use Natalie’s real name, but Michael had good reason for the ruse. The object of his desire (and yes, he now desired her) worked for the same company as Natalie. The more they spoke, the clearer it became to him that he was crossing lines that shouldn’t be crossed. He understood he was playing with fire that would eventually burn him, but his brain seemed to have shut down. Reason abandoned him and compulsion took over.
I’m lonely and alone. I’m getting older. Why should I live this way? Yes, they were justifications, but not without merit. The word “divorce” had rumbled in his head countless times, and eventually it came out to Natalie.
“This isn’t working,” he told her.
A sexless marriage, a loveless union—it was joyless for him, but it wasn’t like they hadn’t been trying to rekindle the romance. Michael made a point to be generous with his touches and gratitude, buy flowers and thoughtful gifts, and do his fair share of the chores and childcare duties. He talked openly about his desires and needs, and it was he who had suggested marriage counseling.