Were those just lies?
Tears blurred my vision as I centered the clay on the wheel. I blinked them back, but more came, hot trails down my cheeks that I couldn’t wipe away with my muddy hands.
Mark wanted to sleep with other women. French women. Beautiful, sophisticated, worldly women who probably didn’t have stretch marks crossing their stomachs like a roadmap of motherhood. Women who didn’t have the soft curves and extra pounds that came from two pregnancies and too many late-night snacks while working in the studio.
I looked down at myself—my lacy night gown that Mark liked so much, and that had seen better days. When was the last time I’d dressed up? Really dressed up, the way other women probably did every single day?
Maybe that was the problem.
Maybe I’d stopped trying.
The other PTA moms—they worked out every morning, had standing appointments for highlights and blowouts, talked about their Botox schedules and which plastic surgeon did the best work. I’d always smiled through those conversations, secretly pitying them. Thinking how exhausting it must be to work that hard just to keep your husband’s attention.
I’d been so smug. So confident that Mark loved me just the way I was.
How stupid was I?
I remembered that last coffee meet last month. Jennifer had held court, fresh from her tummy tuck, talking about how women neededto stay “up-to-date” or their husbands would wander. The other moms had nodded sagely, sharing stories about personal trainers and diet pills and minor “tweaks” that kept their husbands interested.
I’d sipped my latte and thought how lucky I was not to need any of that. Mark loved my curves. He loved running his hands over my soft belly, my full hips. He loved kneading my full breasts when we had sex. He’d told me so a thousand times.
Or had he just been lying?
My throat squeezed-in. Fresh tears fell, dropping onto the clay.
I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t go into an open marriage. I couldn’t watch my husband explore other women, knowing that I wasn’t enough for him anymore.
But if I said no...
If I said no, what then? Mark really wanted this. He’d made that clear. He thought it would bring us closer, somehow, which made no sense at all. How could sleeping with other people bring you closer to your spouse?
But what if he was right? What if this was some modern thing I didn’t understand, some way of strengthening marriages that everyone else knew about except me?
No. That was crazy.
Wasn’t it?
I thought about the alternative. Saying no, and having Mark go to Paris without me for six months. That physical distance would wreck us anyway. I knew it would. Six months was too long. Six months apart, with me here drowning in carpools and pottery orders, while he was in Paris surrounded by beautiful women who wanted him.
At least if I went with him, if I agreed to this nightmare arrangement, I’d be there. I could... what? Watch him with other women?
God, how had we gotten here?
How had I gone from celebrating his promotion two hours ago to covered in clay and tears, trying to decide between two versions of heartbreak?
I lifted a beautifully shaped vase from the wheel and placed a fresh glob of clay on it.
I pressed my face into my shoulder, trying to wipe away the tears, but only succeeded in smearing clay across my cheek.
That’s when I heard the door to the studio open.
“Amelia?”
Mark’s voice was soft and tentative, the puppy dog voice he used when he wanted to make-up after a fight. Any other night this voice would have been enough to melt my anger and forgive him within minutes. But tonight? It wasn’t just a small domestic dispute. It was a marriage shattering conversation.
I quickly tried to wipe my face with my sleeve, and continued working at the wheel, shaping a hollow in the middle of the clay mound. I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t look at him right now.
I felt him move closer, and could sense him right behind me now. He bent down so he could be at my level, and wrapped his arms around my waist. His touch sent ripples across my body, and I felt the urge to turn around and cry into his arms. But my hands were still at the wheel, and I wasn’t ready to forgive him yet.
