Mistakes Were Made Ch. 01

John's Story

Heather, our court-ordered marriage counselor, asked me what emotions I felt after I cheated on my wife.

"Guilt. Shame. Regret. Fear," I said, then paused before adding, "And sadness."

"Say more about the fear. What made you afraid?"

"I was afraid Debbie would find out and she would leave me."

"But she didn't, did she?"

"No, not exactly."

#

I met Debbie at a beach party the summer before my senior year of college. She was with her cousin Patrick, a friend I'd known for years. Sparks were flying from the moment we were introduced, or they were for me, anyway. She was beautiful, and that helped to make a good first impression, but she was also friendly, and funny, and easy-going, and--surprise, surprise--she seemed interested in me. Somehow, I managed to ask her for a date, and we went out half a dozen times before we both went back to school, her to UNH and me to Boston College.

We kept in touch during the fall, mostly through text messages but a few phone calls, too. We tried to get together at Thanksgiving, but her family made plans at the last minute to spend the weekend at her older sister's home in Maine and that deep-sixed our plans. We postponed our next date to the first Friday of our winter break. I couldn't wait.

In early December, I got some unexpected bad news. A guy I knew from high school who was going to UNH, Tim Morris, told me that he'd seen Debbie out with some guy at a bar in Dover and it looked like a date to him.

I was floored. We never discussed being exclusive, and we had only dated half a dozen times, but I thought she felt the way that I did, and I had zero interest in dating anyone else. I had never experienced it before, so I couldn't say for sure, but I thought I was in love with her. I knew she probably wasn't in love with me but staring reality in the face really hurt. It didn't help that she didn't hint around that we were both free to see other people. It left me open to the knife in the back feeling I got when Tim told me about her and the other guy.

Our winter break date was a double with Patrick and his girlfriend Sue. I put on my brave face and tried to act like I was having fun. I wasn't. I was waiting for the end of the night when the couples would go separate ways so I could have a face-to-face talk with Debbie and find out where I stood with her.

"John, you've been distracted all night," she said. "Is something wrong?"

"Yeah, I guess there is. A friend of mine saw you on a date and ... I don't know, it surprised me. I thought we were a thing."

"A thing, huh? Well, I guess we were, and I hope we still are, a thing, but we never talked about being exclusive. I assumed you were dating, and I did go on some dates."

I was glad she didn't lie, but I didn't know how to respond. Should I tell her that she was the one for me, the only one for me, and I never wanted to date anyone else for as long as I lived? Clingy, much?

We were sitting on a couch in her parent's living room. She moved closer to me, held my arm, and laid her head on my shoulder.

"Do you want us to be exclusive?" she asked me.

"More than anything."

"Good. I do, too."

And that was it, the official beginning of our commitment to each other. We sealed it a few minutes later by making love on that couch, half under a blanket and each with one ear listening for someone in her family coming down the stairs.

#

Making love with Debbie was perfect. There was enough variety to keep things interesting, but no sexual gymnastics were required and there was no pressure on me to be some super stud. I loved her, and I wanted to please her, and I felt the same from her. Maybe because our first position was cowgirl on the couch, that was my favorite. I loved to look in her eyes as she rode me, the look in her eyes getting more and more focused and intense as she sought out the best angle and the right speed to make herself cum.

We were making love in that position the first time we said 'I love you' to each other. I'll never forget that moment.

She said, "I love you, and I love this."

I said, "I love you more."

Maybe I was right.

#

Maybe I was wrong, too. I certainly blew everything to hell by acting like I didn't love her.

Three years after we got married, I was working at a small startup company. The founders secured our first big funding round and about a dozen of us went out to celebrate. The funding meant the runway was about twelve months long and if we played our cards right, eighteen months. It was a big, big deal.

Julie Townshend, our QA engineer, invited her friend, Emma Nolan, to come meet us. Emma was my downfall. She just oozed sex appeal, and she knew it and used it. For some reason, she aimed that sex appeal at me. By the end of the night, everyone else had left and we were alone together in a booth. I should never have let that happen. I was a little loose, but I wasn't drunk. I can't use that as an excuse.

She asked me to walk her out to her car. I had to do it. It wasn't a rough neighborhood, but it wasn't Disney World, either, and escorting her was the right thing to do.

When we got to her car, she pulled me in close to give me what I thought would be a 'thank you' kiss on the cheek. It wasn't. Three minutes later we were rutting in her back seat like a couple of teenagers. Her legs were wrapped around me, and her hips moved against me as I thrust into her, and she begged me to keep fucking her. And I did.

I can't tell you much about Emma. She had short brown hair and a tight little body. Where did she grow up? Where did she work? What music did she like? I had no clue. There was certainly no love between us. The only real attraction between us was physical. Maybe I would have liked her if we got to know each other better. As soon as she drove away, I didn't want to know her better. I wanted to forget her. Guilt and shame were descending on me, and I started to feel sick. I was a stupid prick and I had betrayed the woman I loved.

#

For the next two weeks, I wrestled with what to do. If I told Debbie, she'd probably leave me, and while I could claim I'd been honest about my adultery, I'd do that by transferring some of the pain to her. If I didn't tell her, I'd be denying her the chance to decide if she wanted to stay with her miserable cheating asshole husband.

As it happened, Debbie found out even though I didn't tell her. Emma got an attack of conscience and showed up at our door. I wasn't home. I learned later that Emma kept it short.

"Hi. You must be Debbie. I'm Emma. I had sex with your husband two weeks ago. I thought you should know. Sorry."

I got home at about 7:30 that night. I knew something was wrong as soon as I stepped in the door. Debbie was sitting in the living room of our apartment. She had a glass of wine. Her body seemed rigid, and she glared at me.

"Sit over there," she commanded, pointing at a chair across from her.

"What's wrong?"

"Shut up and sit there."

I put my backpack down and sat. 'She knows,' I thought, 'Fucking hell, she knows.'

"Your little friend Emma came by earlier. Is there something you need to tell me?"

I told her what happened, glossing over the sex details. When I finished the story and started to plead for forgiveness, she interrupted me.

"I don't want to hear your bullshit! I'm going in the bedroom. Don't bother me. Sleep on the couch, or sleep in the car, or go home to your parent's house, but don't you fucking dare come in the bedroom."

I sat in the chair as she rose and walked towards the bedroom.

"And get tested for STDs, asshole."

It was a nightmare, but there were some rays of hope. She didn't tell me to leave. She didn't mention divorce.

#

The next three weeks were miserable.

I slept on the couch the first two nights. It had less than six feet of flat cushions, and I'm six foot two inches tall. It was too soft. I woke up sore every morning. We had a second bedroom that I used as an office. The couch was so bad that I decided to sleep on the office floor in a sleeping bag.

Debbie wouldn't talk to me, and she hardly looked at me. A couple mornings, I got a glimpse of her face, and I could see that she'd been crying. I felt like shit, and I know I deserved it.

One night, I decided to push forward. Nothing was getting decided or resolved the way things were.

"We have to talk," I said to her, "Are we done? Should I move out?"

"We'll talk when I'm ready," she snapped back at me. "If you want to move out, don't let me stop you."

"I don't want to move out. I love you. I want to know how to fix it."

"I told you we'll talk when I'm ready," she replied as she closed the door to the bedroom.

On the next Wednesday night, she was ready to talk. I was in the office. She stood in the doorway.

"I don't want you to be blind-sided so I am telling you now. I have a date Friday night."

She walked away from the door. I hurried out of the room, but I didn't catch her before she was in the bedroom with the door closed.

I raised my voice to make sure she heard me through the door.

"You're going on a fucking date? Is that what you said?"

"Yes. Go away."

"What the fuck, Debbie! Are we married, or not?"

"Good question, asshole. Should I ask Emma?"

I didn't know what to say. I fell back against the wall outside the bedroom door and slid to the floor. My only hope was the date was a ruse, something she'd pretend to do to punish me more than she had been doing already.

I tried to talk to her Thursday morning, again Thursday night, and finally, on Friday morning. She didn't even answer me on Thursday. On Friday morning, I pleaded with her.

"Don't go on a date. It's not the same thing. I was stupid, I'm the reason everything is fucked up between us, but it wasn't deliberate. I love you. Don't do this. Don't go on a date."

"I'm going. You need to know how it feels to be betrayed, and I need to get out and have some fun."

"Go out with your friends. Don't go on a date. It will make it worse. We'll both feel worse, not just me. Don't you see? I'm guilty now, but if you go out, you'll be guilty, too."

"I've made up my mind, and I'm going. I made plans with someone, and I'm not going to cancel just because you can dish it out, but you can't take it."

With that, she went into the bathroom.

I snapped. I was miserable before she announced her date, but that misery was my own doing. I deserved to be punished. But a date... that was too much. If she didn't want to stay married, that was her choice. Maybe she thought I didn't get a choice, but I did. I wasn't going to have an open marriage. I wasn't going to share my wife. I wouldn't accept that the punishment for my cheating on her was for her to cheat on me. Maybe it sounds fair to other people, an eye for an eye and all that, but it wasn't the same.

I grabbed my coat and backpack and went out. I drove down the street in the direction she drove to work and parked on a side street. Twenty minutes later, she drove by.

I returned to the apartment. I packed up my clothes and my gaming PC. In about six trips, my car was full, and I had everything of mine that wasn't furniture. On impulse, I opened the refrigerator door, and I grabbed a six pack of summer ale. That would come in handy that night.

#

My parents were both working. I didn't even call them to ask. I just moved into my old bedroom.

I explained things to them that night. My mom was on my side. That was her standard operating procedure. I loved her for it, but it wasn't always helpful. My dad wasn't an 'us and them' guy. He always made an effort to see both sides of a disagreement.

"You fucked up," he told me, "You fucked up big time."

"I know."

He looked at the summer ale I was drinking.

"This isn't a beer fuck-up. This is a scotch fuck-up."

He got three tumblers out of the cabinet. My mom told him none for her, so he put one back. He opened a new bottle of Johnny Walker Black and filled both tumblers.

"This is the first and last alcohol you're going to use to escape this problem. You're going to drink it, and you're going to be sad, but later tonight, or at the latest tomorrow, you've got to stop feeling bad for yourself and start doing something about it."

"I've been trying to do that. I don't know what to do."

"Do you think she's really out on a date?"

"I don't know. I think so. She's not a liar. She said she made plans with someone, and she wasn't going to break them."

"Yeah, but that could be true even if the guy was just a friend. Or maybe it's not even a guy and she's going out with a girlfriend."

"I don't know... I just don't know. But I don't think I care. It's too much. I don't deserve this."

"You should care. If it's a sham date, or no date at all, then it's cruel, but it's not cheating. I think you two can recover from that. If it's a real date, and something happens... Well, it doesn't matter that you cheated first, she'll be a cheater, and you'll have to decide if you can stay married to her."

We didn't say much after that. I slugged down the scotch and went to my bedroom. I tried not to think about what my dad meant when he said 'if something happens.'

#

At 11:45PM, I got a text from Debbie.

"Where are you?"

I didn't want to tell her, not yet, so I answered with a question.

"Where are you?"

"I'm home"

"Are you alone?"

I don't know why I asked that. I didn't really think she'd bring someone to our apartment, so obviously I was just lashing out at her. It probably would have been better if I stayed civil.

"Grow up," she replied.

I didn't respond. She sent another message.

"Are you going to answer me? Where are you?"

"I'm home."

"No, you're not. I'm here."

"I don't live there anymore. I moved to my parent's house."

I shut my phone off and tried to go to sleep. It took me hours.

In the morning, I turned on my phone to find Debbie had left about a dozen messages. They were mostly angry rants. She didn't apologize. She didn't provide any details about her date, not who she was with, where they went, what they did. Her messages didn't make anything worse, but they didn't make anything better. They were useless noise to me.

My mom was in the kitchen when I went downstairs. My dad had left for his usual early Saturday morning tee time, nine holes with his best friend Mike. Mom just gave me a hug and offered me an omelet. I ate it and went back to my room.

For the next two weeks, I was either at the office, or in my bedroom at my parent's house. My gaming rig was in the cellar, but I didn't even set it up. I don't know the clinical definition of depressed, but I'm pretty sure I was the poster child for it.

In a few short weeks, I went from a happily married guy to a twenty-seven-year-old loser living at home with his parents. All I had to do was move a bed into the cellar to complete the transition.

And I hadn't hit bottom yet.

#

Friday night, three weeks after I moved out, I got a phone call from a friend. Debbie was at a local sports bar, and she was with a guy.

Fuck. It was over.

I cleaned up a bit and drove to the bar. I saw her immediately. Two guys, two girls, at a booth across from the bar. She saw me coming and she looked like a deer caught in headlights. The guy she was with was on the outside so she couldn't get out of the booth even if she wanted to. I leaned over him and slapped my hand on the table.

"You can have this back," I said, lifting my hand to reveal my wedding ring lying on the table.

I turned and walked out to face the next phase of my life, the one where I was no longer married to Debbie.

On my way home, I bought a bottle of Johnny Walker Black. I didn't want to drink all my father's stash. I didn't get drunk, I had one tumbler only, about two stiff shots, enough to help me sleep.

Debbie left me a raft of messages again. They were different this time. She said I had the wrong idea, she wasn't on a date, she was out with a friend and two guys dropped by the table.

For some reason I can't explain, it came to me why I was so upset, why it didn't matter to me whether she was on another date or not. What hurt my heart was how she was reacting to the situation. We were separated, our marriage was going down the tubes, and she was out having fun at a bar. I was hardly able to function, and she was out at a fucking bar getting hit on!

"Fucking fuck!" I screamed.

My mother knocked on the door and asked if I was alright.

"Yeah, Mom, I'm OK. I didn't mean to scare you. I'm just frustrated."

"It will work out in the end, honey. However it's meant to be, that's how it will be."

Jesus! I love my mother, and she means well, but I didn't need meaningless platitudes.

'What did I need?' I asked myself, and for the first time since I started this mess, I had an answer. I didn't like it, but it was inescapable. Our marriage was over, so I had to divorce Debbie. I needed out so I could start working on being happy again.

#

I changed my payroll deposit on Monday, and I spoke to a lawyer on Tuesday. I called Debbie on Wednesday night.

She answered and said, "I'm glad you called."

"Yeah, well... Look, I have some things to tell you."

"OK."

"On Friday afternoon, you're going to be served with divorce papers. If you're not there, they'll find you eventually so there's no use hiding from them. Hiding will just cost me money because they charge for each attempt to serve you."

"You're divorcing me? You're the one who cheated, and you're divorcing me! Were you ever the man I loved?"

"There's something else. I transferred some money out of our savings account today. I didn't take half, just a couple grand to help me pay the first month's rent and a security deposit on a place of my own. It's depressing for me to live here, and ... yeah. You don't care about that."

"I do care," she said, but I needed to finish, so I kept talking.

"The lease on the apartment is up in six weeks. You have more than enough to pay the rent out of the checking account. I don't want you to be blindsided, but I'm not depositing my paycheck into the checking account anymore. You have to decide if you are going to stay at the apartment but, of course, I won't be on the lease anymore."

I couldn't resist the little 'blindsided' dig. I am not sure she even caught it. It was a petty thing to say, but injured, cornered animals are prone to attack.

"I can't believe you're divorcing me. I can't believe you're treating this like you have some To-Do list and you need to tick off all the boxes. What about us? What about our marriage? Did you fuck that little bitch just to have an excuse to end us? What the hell, John, what are you doing?"

"Our marriage is over and there are things we need to do. It took a couple years for us to mix our stuff together, and now we have to pull it all back apart."

"We shouldn't be talking about leases or bank accounts. We should be talking about how to make things right between us."

"Yeah, well, I wanted to talk about that a month ago, but you decided that going out on dates was more important."

I hung up and turned off my phone. She wanted to date other people--for fun or to punish me--fine. She wanted to hang out in bars and have guys hit on her, fine. I didn't want to sit around losing my mind while she did it.