The first story caused a lot of anger for several readers. I can't say I blame them. I single-handedly killed an otherwise wonderful marriage. It's been several years. The marriage is over, he's gone and I'm alone. There. Satisfied? Good, now let me continue with my story. It's cathartic.
A few days after returning home from my first business trip I wandered outside and sat on a bench in the garden. It was late, the kids were asleep, and my husband was reading a novel in another room. The moon was nearly full and cast a silvery glow onto the plants and flowers I'd worked so hard to nurture over the past two years.
It was a beautiful night, but I was angry. Angry at myself for creating a situation that was so dangerous and unfair, angry that I'd gone back on the promise I'd made to me a year and a half ago following my first sexual encounter with Greg, and angry that I was too weak to tell my husband what I had done.
He didn't deserve this. Selfishly, I thought to myself, neither did I.
As I sat there, I remembered the conversation I had with my best friend before any of this started.
"Don't," she said. "Don't do it."
I had just told her about Greg and how I'd been daydreaming about cheating with him.
"It's just a fantasy," I assured her. "I'd never have the guts to do it anyway."
Then, a few weeks later, I admitted to her that Greg and I had rented a hotel room and had sex one night. I thought she might be angry and disappointed. Instead, she listened, asked questions, and seemed intrigued by my experience.
"Okay," she said, "you got it out of your system. You crossed a big line...a huge line, but now you have to stop. It can't happen again."
I was adamant that it was over. Nothing but a big mistake that I deeply regretted. Then I told her that my husband and I had an honesty policy and I needed to find a way to confess everything that I had done.
"Oh, hell no. You can't do that! Seriously, it was a stupid mistake. People do it all the time. Why would you want to hurt him like that? He doesn't need to know. Besides, he'll divorce you."
She let that sink in for a minute before continuing.
"You fucked up, Stace, but this time, honesty is bad. Don't confess. EVER!"
Now, a year and a half later I realized that, after my recent trip and the sex I'd once again shared with Greg, my life was out of control. No matter how badly I wanted to relieve my guilt with a full confession, it was too late. My only hope of salvation was to never repeat that behavior.
A few days later, while Greg and I sat in a local restaurant eating lunch, I told him about the conversation I'd had with my friend. He agreed with me.
"Don't get me wrong, what we've shared has been unbelievable, but I feel like shit. Seriously, I never thought I'd cheat on my wife, but you know what? I feel even worse about Steven."
Steven was my husband.
"I can't imagine how I'd feel if some guy was sleeping with my wife, and I hate that I've done it to another man. It's even worse because he's a nice guy who doesn't deserve this."
As much as I agreed with what he was saying, it wasn't making me feel any better. I wanted him to stop talking. It was already obvious that we both felt bad, so after his little tirade, I switched directions and returned the conversation to work matters.
For the next six months, we worked and traveled without incident. Sure, we had fun. Our trips were usually to nice cities, and we stayed in beautiful hotels and ate at amazing restaurants and I have to admit, I enjoyed them immensely. That said, we did our best to maintain a professional distance.
I'd be lying if I didn't say there weren't moments where I felt attracted to Greg. He was smart, and we had chemistry with undeniable sexual undertones, but we didn't pursue anything that we would regret later.
Then we went to New York.
Before I tell you about that, let me just say that my home life during this period was pretty normal. Despite that, my husband, who has an incredibly strong sixth sense, had a few questions about Greg that made me uncomfortable. As shitty as it felt, I followed my friend's advice and lied.
I know, it was bad. The man I truly loved, the father of my children, and my best friend for more than 16 years didn't buy a word of it, but I held fast and denied everything.
There was very little he could do.
Besides, at that moment I believed that even though I was going to Hell, lying to him was a good thing. It would save him unbearable pain, and I was sure that it would never happen again. Later I realized how selfish I'd been. It wasn't about saving Steven from experiencing pain, it was about saving me from taking responsibility. I get it. Unfortunately, I can't go back.
Okay, about New York.
The first three days we worked hard and every night we went out to a new restaurant and ate incredible food. On the final night, we both went to our rooms and showered before meeting a larger group of co-workers and clients in the lobby. Since it was a warm night, I put on a short summer dress and open-toed sandals. Casual, but still dressy enough for business.
As usual, someone had the foresight to make dinner reservations, this time at a little Italian place that had just opened a few months earlier. The word on the street was this restaurant was very good but so far hadn't been discovered by the crowds.
We had time to kill before our reservation, so we went into the lobby bar and ordered a drink. All eight of us were somewhat giddy after the long hours we'd put in over the past few days and we celebrated with a second-round before loading ourselves into a couple of taxis and heading for the restaurant.
As fate would have it, by the time we arrived it had been overrun by a thick crowd. A long line snaked out the door and halfway down the block. We fought our way through the hungry mob only to discover that our table was occupied, and it would be a half-hour before they could seat us.
There was only one solution: more cocktails.
Anyone who has ever traveled on business understands that being on the road is a different reality. Time is suspended and there's a sense of detachment from normal life. Sure, a daily phone call to the spouse and kids keeps you somewhat connected but your senses are so overwhelmed that it becomes easy to confuse which life is real, and which is more important.
As I squeezed into my seat at the long table for dinner, I was completely immersed in road life and, thanks largely to the pre-dinner drinks, I had all but forgotten about what truly mattered. Why bother with those problems? I had new friends, wonderful experiences, and the rather twisted belief that my contributions were indispensable to the project and the people around me. After all, our top client, the head of the whole company, was sitting a few feet away and he'd taken several minutes during cocktails to gush about my work and how thankful he was for my effort.
I was no longer just a pretty, suburban mom; I was a superwoman who was being heralded by one of the most powerful men in the industry. Well, I didn't believe that but who doesn't like a compliment?
With Greg by my side, and by this point he was sitting next to me, I could accomplish anything, and had!
Like so many others I've met in business, the accolades, like the alcohol, had infected my soul.
During the next two hours, we laughed and shouted and created superficial bonds that only someone who has been there can understand. In the meantime, the waiters delivered an endless number of trays filled with amazing dishes. I sampled as much as I could including the bruschetta, veal, manicotti, stuffed mushrooms, gnocchi, and salad. And that was only half of what lay before us on the table. The wine flowed too. I lost count of how many times the waiter topped off my glass.
The night ended with several toasts featuring a too-sweet Italian dessert wine. As we all ventured onto the sidewalk it was apparent that everyone was drunk, yet somehow, we managed to get back to the hotel without losing anyone in our party.
Greg and I were staying on different floors, but he always escorted me to my door whenever we stayed out late. We drunkenly bounced off one another as we got off the elevator and made our way to my room. It was late but I invited him to come in for one more drink that neither one of us needed.
"One for the road?" I'd slurred as we steered toward my door.
Inside the room, I headed to the bathroom while Greg cracked the code on my minibar.
The alcohol hit me hard and I decided that I was finished for the night. Without thinking it through, I kicked off my sandals, pulled my summer dress over my head, and tossed it on the floor. Greg laughed at me, as I wobbled out of the bathroom and headed straight for bed wearing nothing but a white thong.
"Do you still want this?" he asked, offering the half bottle of wine he'd freed from the minibar.
"I can't," I slurred. "Gotta sleep."
I pulled the covers down and snuggled under the sheets. Greg set the wine bottle on the dresser and turned to leave but I watched him stumble as he headed for the door. Despite my alcohol-induced fog, I worried that he'd pass out in the elevator or somewhere else before he made it to his room.
"Hey, stay here tonight."
