Page 13 of The Marriage Blunder

I wanted it again. Sober. In a bed that belonged to me, with his glasses on my nightstand and enough time to be exhaustive.

Now, Jude was sitting on bed, the sheet drawn over his lap in a posture that suggested both modesty and mild surprise at his own state of undress.

The marriage certificate was open on his knees, both hands braced on either side of it, as if prepared to close the page and let the situation collapse into a harmless singularity.

He read the document twice, lips pressed thin. Then he set it on the bed with deliberate care. He reached up to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose, realized they were not on his face, and located them by touch—right where he had left them, lenses down.

He put them on. He did not look at me.

I waited.

I know the value of silence. I know when a person needs to fill it, and when the silence is the only safe place left. Jude sat in his, and then cleared his throat.

“Well…” The word floated there, wanting a verb.

I sat up, letting the sheet fall to my waist. I am not ashamed of my body. At my age, shame is a sunk cost, and if you do not cash out early, you will be eaten alive by the compounding interest.

I said, “Well.”

He looked over at me then, just once, a brief head-tilt that read as both challenge and request for context. “We should talk about it.”

“Do you want coffee?” I asked.

He did. I picked up the phone on the nightstand and ordered room service. While we waited, we inventoried the evidence.

Item one: two matching rings, plain and dull.

Item two: two men, neither clothed, both very awake.

Item three: a hotel suite with the scent of last night’s sex and, beneath it, something newer, sharper, like panic.

He said, “We’ll need to fix this before Carolyn finds out.”

I nodded. “She’s not in the room. Not that it would matter.”

He looked at me like he was about to say something devastating, then reconsidered. Instead, he asked, “You want out?”

I looked at him. I really looked. Jude Thomas was not the kind of man you wake up next to and feel buyer’s remorse. He was, even at this moment, so controlled, so aware of every possible outcome, that I suspected he had mapped the entire conversation before he allowed himself to begin it.

I admired that.

I said, “No.”

He blinked, but did not look away.

I asked, “Do you?”

He didn’t answer, which was as close as he got to admitting a thing without having to defend it.

There was a knock at the door. Jude retreated into the bathroom, taking the marriage certificate with him, and I fielded the coffee tray in a hotel robe, exchanging the barest of words with the server. I tipped generously.

I always tip generously.

When Jude returned in a robe, hair combed and glasses at proper alignment, he poured himself a cup of coffee with the care of a man handling volatile chemicals. He sat at the little table by the window, sunlight catching the edge of his jaw.

He said, “My mother is going to be delighted. Carolyn will try to kill us both. Possibly at the same time.”

I smiled at that. “I’ve had worse threats.”