Also-Ran

My heart broke as I watched Jeanne cry at our kitchen table. My wife's flaming red hair hung over its surface like a shroud as her shoulders jerked with loud, full-body sobs. I had never, in our dozen years together, seen her wail like this. Never seen her mourn like this. Not when her best friend was diagnosed with cancer. Not when she miscarried. Not even at her mother's funeral. I realized only one thing could make her cry this way.

My heart broke, but it didn't break for her. It broke for me. In a monotone, I said, "James died." Startled by my sudden, unexpected appearance, she looked up at me, her emerald green eyes wide with shock and fear. My wife understood that she now had two tragedies to grieve. The first was the death of her greatest love. The second was that her husband knew, finally and for certain, that he had never been first in her heart.

Her sobs broke again, great swells of fear and pain. She reached out; whether asking for my comfort or asking to comfort me, I neither knew nor cared. "Scott--"

"Good."

Turning on my heel, I left our home without another word, pursued by her hopeless, keening wail.

I drove. It had always been what I'd done when I needed to think. I found it meditative in a way that few other things were; running could serve a similar purpose, but I knew my ruminations would last longer than my conditioning would allow. Hell, they'd likely last longer than the bones in my feet.

James had been Jeanne's high school and then college boyfriend. They had known each other since they were children. Their parents and friends all knew they would marry; but then they didn't.

He wanted to be the 21st century Hemingway, to travel the world and have adventures and channel it into his writing. Being married to Jeanne wouldn't fit with those plans. James' need to make his way in the world was greater than his desire to marry her, and so he left her behind.

His rejection broke Jeanne's heart, but by the time she and I met three years later, she seemingly had recovered. I had little indication anything remained other than a fondness of someone she'd known her whole life. She and I dated and quickly fell in love.

My wife was--is--a gorgeous woman, tall and athletic, but still quintessentially feminine. If her dreams had taken her in that direction, she could easily have become a model. Instead, she wanted a loving husband and happy family more than anything else in the world.

James barely came up in conversation when we dated, certainly no more than any of my exes. Perhaps that should have been a tip-off. She had known him for fifteen years. He should have figured more prominently in anecdotes of her childhood. It didn't occur to me then. Now, that gap made me wonder what else I had missed.

We had only met a couple of times. The first was at our wedding, where I was told that he was being invited in the role of her childhood friend, not her college sweetheart. His parents were old family friends and had been invited as well; it didn't bother me.

I found myself surprised at how different James and I were. I was brown-haired, tall and slender, with the body of an endurance athlete, one earned through long hours running and playing tennis. He resembled a fireplug, short and powerfully built, with unruly black hair. Hell, Jeanne had a few inches of height on him.

More than the physical differences separated us, though. He exuded a boisterous, take-no-shit personality packed with roguish charm, while I'm much more reserved and, for lack of a better word, solid; some might even say boring. That's not to say I'm a pushover, but I don't go seeking out trouble, either. I disliked James immediately, and he clearly felt the same way about me. Even without the lovely Jeanne as a bone of contention between us, I think we would have despised each other.

He was not, I thought, anything particularly special: moderately handsome, well-educated, and driven, but not an exceptionally smart or accomplished man. At that point he had only done a short stint in the military and worked as a deckhand on a large cargo ship, plus a few other minor adventures as he followed in the footsteps of his idol. I had him beat in almost every way, in my estimation.

Then I saw how Jeanne looked at him. When I was around, she was friendly and even sisterly to him. But when she didn't realize I was watching, I saw a longing there that concerned me. I asked her about it, but she laughed and told me it was just a bit of "what might have been," nothing more. My loving fiancée gently ribbed me about how I'd looked at an ex we'd met for coffee one time, and I let it go. She was to be my bride, after all. I'd won the fair maiden's hand.

He had won her heart, though. I just didn't know it then.

Jeanne and I threw ourselves into married life after the wedding. I was happy; she seemed happy. In every tangible way, she made me believe she was the perfect wife: loving, caring, and passionate. A true partner. We were newlyweds, and we acted that way.

But the longing I had seen never entirely went out of my mind. It nagged at me occasionally that I had never seen her look that way at me. I tried to ignore the way she'd sometimes get that same look while staring off into the distance; when I'd interrupt her reverie, a hint of guilt came before the loving smile. 'Surely it was just my imagination,' I told myself. Surely.

Then he visited our home, three years after we wed. Visited Jeanne, to be more accurate. When I came home from work, they sat at our kitchen table talking quietly. I caught only snatches of their words before they noticed my presence, but their body language and the urgency of the quiet conversation they shared gave me pause. James' hand laid atop hers, and they leaned close to each other. His face was earnest; hers conflicted.

My concern further escalated with their reactions when they noticed my presence. James was poised as he pulled away, with a smug expression somewhere between challenge and disdain. Jeanne almost leapt to her feet and rushed to give me a welcoming kiss. "Sweetheart! I'm so glad you're home!"

"Clearly." I stared at the interloper at my kitchen table. He held my gaze.

"James is--"

He stood. "Actually, I was just leaving. I wish I could stay, but I'm shipping out early tomorrow. Headed down to McMurdo Station in Antarctica for six months."

I didn't pretend to be sorry he was leaving. He didn't pretend to care. Jeanne quickly read the room, politely but clearly dismissing him. "You'll have to visit us when you're in town again. I'm sorry you can't stay longer."

James smiled at my wife as she broke away from me, then kissed Jeanne on the cheek and hugged her just a little too long, just a little too close for my liking. The lout made as if to shake my hand as he released her. "Scott, thank you so much for taking care of Jeanne. I can tell how devoted you are to her. She's very lucky to have found her true love."

His manner had shifted to one that was almost affable. But something hid there, a joke concealed behind the pleasant façade. He was laughing at me. By the way Jeanne pulled in on herself, she was in on the joke but didn't find it nearly as funny. I stared daggers at him, ignoring his outstretched hand, then nodded dismissively. "Safe travels."

After he left, we rowed. Something more than an old friendship existed between her and James. We both knew it, but she wouldn't fess up. I didn't believe that Jeanne had cheated on me, but I couldn't put the possibility out of my mind, either. She gave me the silent treatment for a while, but I knew that I was right. There was some guilt there, some indiscretion I could see the outline of, but not the whole form.

Within a few days, things had thawed between us. James was gone on a boat to freeze his ass off, and we were still here. She did everything she could to make me forget about my anger and my suspicion; I loved her, so it worked. We spent the whole weekend in bed making up and nine months later...

Nine months later.

I yanked the wheel of my car, almost rolling it while trying to get off the road. It was only by pure luck I didn't get hit by another vehicle as I burst out the door and onto the shoulder, spewing my lunch across the asphalt.

Nine months. Oh god. Rachel didn't look anything like me; she was a clone of her mom. Nathan was the same. Oh god. Oh god!

I sat in my car on the side of the road for a long time, until well after the sun went down. The dings of text notifications and my wife's unwelcomely cheerful ringtone sounded over and over, but I scarcely noticed. My eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, trying to find some type of equilibrium in a world that no longer made sense.

I am not normally the most emotionally demonstrative man. I won't say that I don't cry; any man who does is either lying or emotionally stunted, in my opinion. But I almost never did in public. By the time I was ready to pull back onto the road, my face was tear streaked and my shirt almost soaking wet.

In a cheap motel room, I finally looked at my phone. To her credit, Jeanne's text messages went from apologetic to worried to fearful. They were never angry. The same could not be said of mine; a simple FUCK OFF was all she received in reply. Then I turned off the phone and laid staring at the water-damaged ceiling, wondering if I was getting a divorce. Wondering how I was going to explain the divorce to my children. Wondering if they were my children.

Misery will only keep you awake for so long. I was exhausted, and the worries and heartache were finally left behind for a time. I could only wish they wouldn't return as soon as I awoke, that they had been nightmares and would vanish in the light of the morning sun. But then I opened my eyes again and smelled the faint scent of mildew and cleaning chemicals. I knew that it was my marriage that had been the dream, and my wife's paroxysms of sorrow yesterday had been my awakening.

There was no point in showering; I would only have to change back into the same clothes. I had to go home eventually. "Eventually" might as well be "immediately."

Jeanne was sleeping on the couch when I opened the door, but she jumped up as I came in, saying... something. No clue what. I still couldn't process what I'd already learned, so my brain just let her words glance off of it. The way she ran to me, though, reminded me of nothing so much as when she leapt up from the table to assure me that nothing untoward had happened during James's last visit to our home. Or what I had imagined was his last visit to our home; I had certainly never seen him again, but what did that really mean?

I pushed past her without a word, stripping my clothes off and tossing them on the floor as I went. Normally I wouldn't go naked through my home like that, but the kids were spending this week with my parents on their farm. At least the asshole had died at a convenient time. Of course, Jeanne and I were supposed to be spending this week reconnecting and possibly working on another sibling for Rachel and Nate. Half sibling? Fuck, I felt like throwing up again.

I let the water run down my body, trying to get into a state that let me focus once more. The only problem was that every time I did manage to focus, it felt like looking into the sun. It was all just too much and at the same time too little. I had learned something I'd never wanted to, but it wasn't enough to tell me everything I needed to know.

She loved James with an intensity so strong that his passing pained her more than anything else ever had. That much was apparent. She had loved him like that for... our whole marriage? Presumably? She had never loved me like that; if I hadn't suspected it before, hadn't remembered all the longing stares out the window like she was in Wuthering fucking Heights, her response when I found her crying and put two and two together cinched it.

Loved him. Loved him more than me. Did she love me at all, or was I just convenient? Did it matter? Was I willing to spend the rest of my life with someone knowing that I'd never be her true love?

"True love." That motherfucker. That was what the smug sonuvabitch meant, the little joke that he and my wife had shared right in front of me. "Scott, thank you so much for taking care of Jeanne. I can tell how devoted you are to her. She's very lucky to have found her true love." 'Thanks for keeping my seat warm, sucker. She's found her true love, and it isn't you, but you can keep her out of trouble until I come back for her.'

If James wasn't already dead, I'd find him and beat him to death with my bare hands.

She loved him. Loved from afar, or loved him in the flesh? In my home? In my bed? Loved him enough to cuckold me, to have me raise his children so he'd have a readymade family when he was done with his bullshit adventures?

I stayed in the shower long past when the water ran cold. I wasn't trying to punish myself; I needed to cool off. My rage had me ready to murder a dead man. I couldn't trust myself around the woman who'd betrayed me with him, couldn't trust myself to not strangle the mother of... someone's children. My children? By default, I supposed. That's how the state would see it. If he was the sperm donor, the fucker certainly wasn't coming back for them.

I loved the kids. That was the god's honest truth. I clung to that, the knowledge that they were mine, that I had changed their diapers and put them to bed, driven them to daycare and school, held them when they had nightmares and tried to teach them right from wrong. I certainly couldn't trust their mother to do that last one. That much was clear.

I had to cling to that love, because I needed to get the truth out of Jeanne. No matter what she said, my anger would rise and rise. I needed that pure love for my children to, at worst, simply walk out the door again. I had never been violent with a woman in my life. I didn't want to believe it was in my makeup. But I'd also never been betrayed in such an all-encompassing fashion, and a man doesn't learn who he is until he's tested. I hoped that I was made of strong enough stuff to stay true to the man I believed myself to be.

She had left clothes for me on the counter while I was in the shower. I threw them in the hamper and went to pick something else out. I wanted nothing from her now but the truth.

When I came downstairs, she was back at the kitchen table. Always that fucking table, where the worst things in my life seemed to keep happening. I was going to get it hauled away by Goodwill later.

Jeanne was looking down into her cup as I approached. She looked up, apprehension and sadness on her face. "Scott, I--" I raised a hand to silence her, then went about making myself a cup of coffee, popping in a new single serving cup, filling up the water, and staring at the mug as it slowly filled. I leaned against the counter and took a few sips.

"So. Are the kids mine?"

Her jaw just hung open, then she sputtered, "Wha- wha- what!?"

I took another sip. "It's a simple question. You're in love with the asshole. The last time I saw him was nine months before Rachel was born. One plus one equals 'have you fucking cuckolded me, you bitch?'"

I never spoke to Jeanne like that. She had been the center of my universe for as long as we'd been together. The words were like a slap in the face. They were a visceral shock, pain delivered by someone who she'd never believed could hurt her. I'd become intimately familiar with the sensation in the last twenty-four hours. She stared in disbelief.

"Answer the goddamned question. Are. The. Kids. Mine. You. Fucking--"

She shrieked, "Stop it!" Her sadness became misery as tears rolled down her face. "How can you ask that? I've never-- I WOULD never do that to you! How could you even think--"

I exploded at her, "Because you've been in love with someone else the entire fucking time we've been married, you backstabbing bitch! What the fuck am I supposed to think?!"

"That I love you, too! I've never cheated on you! I would never fuck someone else, you asshole!"

I looked away from her and muttered, "'Too.'"

"What?"

"You said, 'I love you, too.' Meaning you do love him. At least you've said one honest thing, finally. Assuming that is honest, assuming you're not just lying to me about that so I don't blow up our fucking lives here."

"Scott, I do love you. Of course I love you!"

I rolled my eyes. "'Of course.' How can you even-- Jesus, Jeanne, could you stop acting like I'm being stupid or unreasonable?" My gaze drifted down into my coffee cup, unwilling to rest on the woman that was supposed to be mine. "If... if I'm right, and you are still in love with him, and you have been the whole time we've been together, and you love him more than me, then-- fuck, Jeanne. How is that love? How do you marry someone when you don't..." I shook my head. "Why? Just fucking why?"

Her tone softened. "Scott, please. I do love you. I promise. And as to whether I love him more or..." She sighed. "Please, just sit down. I can explain."

I snorted. "That'll be some fucking feat."

"Scott, you're angry. I get it. I deserve it. I know I do. But, please, please just let me explain. I do love you. I'm so glad I married you, Scott. I'm so glad you're my husband and the father of my children. Please, baby, just--"

A growl from somewhere dark. "Don't."

"What?"

"No 'baby,' or 'love,' or 'sweetheart.' No cutesy names meant to make me feel warm towards you. Don't try to soften the blow. Just tell the fucking truth for once in our marriage."

Jeanne reluctantly nodded. "Sit? Please?"

I pulled out the chair opposite of her and sat. I didn't push it in, didn't want to give her the chance to put her hand on mine or sit close enough to smell her sweet scent. I loved her more than I'd ever loved anything except my children, and I knew I was weak to her charms. Foolish. The idea, the word, made me angry again. Good. My resolve stiffened.

"Fine. You say you can explain, so explain."

She swallowed, then put her hands flat on either side of her coffee cup. Jeanne closed her eyes, breathed in and out, then opened them. Her tears had stopped. Her face still showed signs of pain, but she was more centered. That pissed me off; how could she be so calm?

"When James broke up with me in college, I got so angry. I knew he wanted his ridiculous adventure, that dream of being another Hemingway. But... I knew him. I knew he wouldn't give it up, so I let him go and didn't argue about it. If he didn't want to be with me, so be it. He broke my heart, and I thought... I thought that my anger was hatred. I thought I hated him, and that hatred was a step on the way to letting go.

"I was single for a long time. Dated for a little while. Met you. Fell in love with you." She smiled, but I looked away, angry and distrustful. "I did, Scott. I did fall in love with you. Please believe that. I know you're mad at me, and..." Her voice trailed off, her words having failed to find purchase.

"You asked me to marry you, and I happily accepted. I was so proud to marry you. I loved you, and we were going to have a happy, full life together. I was sure of it. I thought about James sometimes, but it was always..." Jeanne took another deep breath. "I chose to believe that it was nostalgia. Or residual anger. Or that I was gloating, internally, that I'd gotten my dream and he hadn't. And then I'd be sad for him that he hadn't, and I'd..." My teeth ground together, almost audibly.

Jeanne swallowed again, her uncanny calmness beginning to falter. "I invited him to the wedding not just because he was a family friend, but to... I told myself I wanted to rub his face in it. That I'd chosen another man, a good man. The better man. That he hadn't achieved his dream five years later, but that I had mine, a happy marriage with a loving husband. It was petty but..." She shook her head. "No. No 'buts.' It was petty. I shouldn't have cared about him by then. But he had been such a big part of my life, and then he was gone from it. He wasn't, though; not really. He was always in my head. In my--" She sniffled.