"But what?" what?" I snap. I snap.

"But we were mostly just friends," she says, the way Ruby sounds when making up an excuse for her blatant disregard of a basic rule. Yes, Mommy, I know I scribbled all over the walls, but isn't it a lovely picture? Yes, Mommy, I know I scribbled all over the walls, but isn't it a lovely picture?

"Friends?"

"He was so ... so kind to Charlie," she stammers, "and such an amazing surgeon . . . I was so ... grateful."

"So grateful that you had sex with him?" I whisper.

Her eyes fill with tears as she shakes her head and says, "I fell in love with him. I didn't mean for it to happen. I don't know exactly how or why it happened. Maybe it's because he saved my son . . . Or maybe I just fell in love with him . . . because." because."

Her voice trails off as if she's talking to herself. "I've never met a man like him. He is ... exceptional."

I feel a fresh rise of fury that she would dare tell me about my husband. Someone she's known for a measly three months as opposed to our seven years seven years together. But instead of pointing this out, I say, "Exceptional men don't cheat on their wives. They don't have affairs. They don't put a cheap thrill ahead of their children." together. But instead of pointing this out, I say, "Exceptional men don't cheat on their wives. They don't have affairs. They don't put a cheap thrill ahead of their children."

As I say the words, the paradox of the situation crystallizes in my head. If she was a cheap thrill, then Nick isn't worth fighting for. But if she is a person of quality for whom he had genuine feelings, then what? Where does that leave me?

"I don't think that's what he did," she says, but I can tell she is wondering, questioning what they had.

"Did he tell you he loved you?" I fire back at her, realizing that this this is why I am here. This is the linchpin for me, everything turning on this one singular fact. He slept with her; he clearly had feelings for her; and I believe, from the bottom of my heart, that he was-maybe still is-in love with her. But if he told her he loved her, or if he told her he didn't love me, we are finished forever. is why I am here. This is the linchpin for me, everything turning on this one singular fact. He slept with her; he clearly had feelings for her; and I believe, from the bottom of my heart, that he was-maybe still is-in love with her. But if he told her he loved her, or if he told her he didn't love me, we are finished forever.

I hold my breath, waiting, exhaling as she shakes her head, slowly, emphatically.

"No," she says. "He didn't feel the same. He doesn't love me. He never did. He loves you." you."

My head spins as I replay the words, searching for the truth in them. I want to believe her. I desperately desperately want to believe her. And maybe, want to believe her. And maybe, maybe maybe I actually do. I actually do.

"I'm sorry, Tessa," she continues, her voice cracking, anguish and sharne all over her face. "I'm sorry for what I did. To you. To your children. Even to my own child. It was wrong-and I'm . . . I'm so so sorry." sorry."

I take a deep breath, imagining her with Nick, her eyes closed, holding him, telling him she loves him. Yet as much as I want to blame her and hate her, I don't-and can't. Instead, I feel pity for her. Maybe it's because she is a single mother. Maybe it's because her son was hurt. Maybe it's because she's in love with someone she can't have. My My husband. husband.

Whatever the case, I look into her eyes and say the thing I never dreamed I'd say in this moment.

"Thank you," I tell her, and as I watch her accept my gratitude with the slightest of nods, then gather her belongings and stand to leave, I am shocked to realize that I actually mean it.

44.

Valerie Time heals all wounds. She knows this better than most. Yet she still feels surprised by it now, marveling that the mere passage of days can feel like gradual magic. She is not yet over him, but she no longer misses him in an acute, painful way, and she has made peace with what happened between them, even if she doesn't fully understand it. She thinks about what she told Nick's wife-that he never loved her-and wonders if this is true, part of her still clinging to the belief that what they shared was real. heals all wounds. She knows this better than most. Yet she still feels surprised by it now, marveling that the mere passage of days can feel like gradual magic. She is not yet over him, but she no longer misses him in an acute, painful way, and she has made peace with what happened between them, even if she doesn't fully understand it. She thinks about what she told Nick's wife-that he never loved her-and wonders if this is true, part of her still clinging to the belief that what they shared was real.

But as more time passes, this hope dwindles and she begins to see their relationship merely as an impossible fantasy, an illusion born from need and longing. And she decides that just because two people believe in something, however intensely, doesn't make it real.

And then there is the matter of Tessa, the woman she envies and pities, fears and respects all at once. She replays their conversation a hundred times, even repeating it to Jason, before she can fully grasp what transpired in the back of the bookstore on that bitterly cold January evening. Nick's wife had can fully grasp what transpired in the back of the bookstore on that bitterly cold January evening. Nick's wife had thanked thanked her. She had listened to another woman confess to falling in love with her husband, her. She had listened to another woman confess to falling in love with her husband, making love making love to her husband, and yet she to her husband, and yet she actually actually thanked her, seemingly accepting her apology, or at least not rejecting it. The whole scenario was so unlikely, so far-fetched, that it began to almost make sense, just as it began to seem perfectly logical that Charlie would come to love Summer, a girl who had once tormented him on the playground. thanked her, seemingly accepting her apology, or at least not rejecting it. The whole scenario was so unlikely, so far-fetched, that it began to almost make sense, just as it began to seem perfectly logical that Charlie would come to love Summer, a girl who had once tormented him on the playground.

It was about grace, she decides, something that has been missing from her own life. Whether she was born with a shortfall of it or lost it along the way, Valerie can't be sure. But she wants it now. She wants to be the kind of person who can bestow unearned kindness on another, replace bitterness with empathy, forgive only for the sake of forgiving.

She wants this so desperately that she does the very thing she once vowed she'd never do. She makes a phone call-and she makes it from the waiting room at the hospital while Charlie is in his second hour of surgery with his new surgeon. She listens to the phone ring, her throat constricting as she hears the apprehensive hello on the other line.

"Is this Romy?" she asks, her heart pounding.

The woman replies yes, and Valerie feels herself hesitate, thinking of the night of the accident and what she is still sure was Romy's negligence; then Charlie's last surgery when Romy barged, uninvited, into this very room; then the afternoon in the school parking lot when Romy spotted her with Nick.

Despite these images, she stays on course, saying, "This is Valerie Anderson."

"Oh! Hello. How are you? How is Charlie?" Romy asks, a gentleness in her voice that was either missing in prior exchanges or that Valerie had simply overlooked.

"He's doing well. He's in surgery now," she says.

"Is he okay?" Romy asks.

"No. No ... I didn't mean . . . I mean, yes, he is fine. It's a routine surgery to refine an earlier graft. He's good. He really is," Valerie says, realizing that she is no longer nervous about Charlie's face or hand or heart. Not in the way she once was.

"Thank goodness," goodness," Romy says. "I'm so happy to hear it. So happy. You just don't know." Romy says. "I'm so happy to hear it. So happy. You just don't know."

Valerie feels herself choke up as she continues, "Well. I just wanted to call and tell you that. That Charlie is doing well. . . And that. . . Romy?"

"Yes?"

"I don't blame you for what happened."

It's not exactly the truth, Valerie recognizes, but is close enough.

She doesn't remember the rest of the conversation, or exactly how she and Romy leave things, but as she hangs up, she feels a heavy burden being lifted from her heart.

And it is in that moment that she decides she has another phone call to make, one that is six years overdue. She does not yet know what she will say, whether she will even be able to find him, or whether forgiveness will flow in either direction. But she knows that she owes it to him, and to Charlie, and even to herself, to try.

45.

Tessa When I return home from the bookstore, I find my mother sitting on the couch, reading a magazine and eating Godiva chocolates. I return home from the bookstore, I find my mother sitting on the couch, reading a magazine and eating Godiva chocolates.

I sit beside her, and carefully select a dark, heart-shaped piece. "Well, look at me," I say. "The angry housewife eating bonbons."

My mother lets out a snort of laughter, then quickly sobers and asks me how it went.

I shrug, indicating that I do not want to discuss all the gory details, then say, "She wasn't what I expected."

"They never are," she says with a long sigh.

We eat in silence for another moment before my mother continues her train of thought. "But it's really not about them, is it?"

"No," I say, realizing that I might finally stop obsessing over the "other woman," now that I've met her. "It really isn't."

My mom's face brightens as if thrilled for my potential breakthrough. Then she gives me a sideways glance and tells me that she is taking the kids to the city for the weekend, that she's already discussed it with my brother. "You need time to yourself," she says.

"No, Mom. That's too much for you," I say, picturing her on the train, frantically corralling Ruby and Frank.

She shakes her head and insists that she has it under control-and that Dex is meeting her at Penn Station so she won't have to maneuver through the city alone.

I start to protest again, but she cuts me off, saying, "Dex already told Julia and Sarah that their cousins are coming for the weekend. And I already told Frank and Ruby. We can't disappoint the kids, now can we?"

I bite my lip, and acquiesce. "Thanks, Mom," I say, feeling closer to her than I have in a long time.

"Don't thank me, sweetie. I just want you to do this. I just want you to face this head-on and figure out what is right for you."

I nod, still afraid and still very very angry, but finally, angry, but finally, almost almost ready. ready.

The next morning, after my mother and children have departed for New York, I am in my kitchen, drinking coffee, with the frantic, dawning realization that there is nothing left to be done. There is no family left to tell or opinions to garner. There are no discoveries to be had or facts to uncover. It is time to talk to Nick. So I pick up the phone and call my husband of seven years, more nervous than when I phoned a perfect stranger the night before.

He answers on the first ring, breathlessly, as if he had been expecting this call, at this very moment. For a second, I wonder if my mother-or Valerie-prepared him.

But when he asks me if everything is okay, I hear sleep in his voice and realize that I must have just awakened him; that is all.

"I'm fine," I say, taking a deep breath, making myself continue as I unwittingly picture him, shirtless, in whatever bed he's been sleeping in for all these weeks, "I just want to talk .. . I'm ready to talk. Could you come home?"

"Yes," he says. "I'll be right there."

Fifteen minutes later, he is standing on the porch, knocking on his own front door. I open it, and find him unshaven and bleary-eyed in an old pair of scrubs and a faded baseball cap.

I let him in, avoiding eye contact and mumbling, "You look dreadful."

"You look beautiful," he says, sounding as sincere as he ever has, despite the fact that I'm wearing jeans and a T-shirt, my hair still damp from my shower.

"Thanks," I say, leading him to the kitchen, taking my usual seat at the table and pointing to his spot, across from me.

He sits, takes off his cap, and tosses it onto Ruby's chair. Then he runs his hand through his hair, longer than I've ever seen it.

"I know. I know," he says. "I need a cut. You didn't give me much of a warning here ..."

I shake my head, indicating that his grooming is the least of my concerns, then burst out with it. "I met her last night. I called her," I say. "I needed to see her."

He furrows his brow and scratches his jaw. "I understand," he says, and then stops short of asking any questions, which seems to require a certain measure of restraint.

"She was nice," I say. "I didn't hate her."

"Tessa," he says, his eyes begging me to stop.

"No. She was. . . She was honest, too. She didn't try to deny anything, like I thought she would . . . In fact, she actually admitted that she's in love with you," I say, unsure of whether I'm baiting him, punishing him, or simply telling the truth. "Did you know that? I'm sure she told you, too . . ." She was honest, too. She didn't try to deny anything, like I thought she would . . . In fact, she actually admitted that she's in love with you," I say, unsure of whether I'm baiting him, punishing him, or simply telling the truth. "Did you know that? I'm sure she told you, too . . ."

He shakes his head, rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands, and says, "She's not in love with me."

"She was."

"No. She never was."

"She told told me she was, Nick," I say, my anger ebbing and flowing by the second, with his every word, every fleeting expression. me she was, Nick," I say, my anger ebbing and flowing by the second, with his every word, every fleeting expression.

"She thought thought she was," he says. "But. . . she wasn't. Love doesn't work like that." she was," he says. "But. . . she wasn't. Love doesn't work like that."

"Oh?" I say. "How does does it work, Nick?" it work, Nick?"

He stands and rotates to Frankie's seat, now next to me, where he reaches for my hand. I shake my head in refusal but when he tries again, I reluctantly give it to him, my eyes welling with his touch.

"Love is sharing a life together," he says, squeezing my hand. "Love is what we we have." have."

"And what did you have with her?"

"That was . . . something else."

I stare at him, struggling to make sense of his words. "So you didn't love her?"

He sighs, glances at the ceiling, and then looks at me again. I say a prayer that he doesn't lie to me, that he doesn't issue a flat-out denial when I know he loved her. Or at least thought he did.

"I don't know, Tess," he begins. "I really don't... I wouldn't have done what I did if I didn't have strong feelings for her. If it wasn't something at least approaching love, something that looked and felt like love . . . But those feelings-they don't compare to my love for you. And the moment I came home and looked into your eyes and told you what I had done, I knew that. . . Tessa, I messed up so bad. I risked everything- our marriage, my job, this home. I still don't know why I let it happen. I hate hate myself for letting it happen." myself for letting it happen."

"You didn't let let it happen, Nick," I say, pulling my hand away from him. "You it happen, Nick," I say, pulling my hand away from him. "You made made it happen. It took two. It took both of you." it happen. It took two. It took both of you."

As I say the words, though, I am struck by how much they apply to us, as well. That it took two to get us here. That it always always takes two. For relationships to work, for them to break apart, for them to be fixed. takes two. For relationships to work, for them to break apart, for them to be fixed.

"I know," he says. "You're right. I'm not trying to shift the blame to anyone else . . . I'm just trying to tell you how much I love you." love you."

"Then how how could you do it?" I say, my voice soft now. It is a question-not an accusation. could you do it?" I say, my voice soft now. It is a question-not an accusation.

He looks at me, struggling for words. "I think . . . I think . . . I was looking for something I thought I needed."

"And what was that? What was it that you weren't getting here? From me?" I ask as I begin to answer the question for myself. I refuse to accept any blame for his infidelity, and yet I can't deny that things have changed between us. That I've changed. And that, in many ways, I'm not the person he married. I think of Nick's recent accusations, as well as my mother's observations. That I am never happy; that I have lost some of my passion; that I focus on things that don't matter, rather than our relationship, the bedrock of everything else. "What did she give you?"

He shakes his head. "It wasn't like that . . . It was more . . ." He glances up at the ceiling, searching for words, then looks at me and says, "the way I felt when I was around her reminded me of the way I felt for you in the beginning."

My heart breaks hearing the two of us compared, yet there is comfort in his honesty, in the pain on his face, how much he also wishes it weren't true.