Chapter 67
Self-control was never one of Willa’s strengths. As a 13-year-old, she’d snuck a peek into her best friend’s pink-hearted, unlocked diary while sleepless during a slumber party, not to uncover secret crushes and questions about masturbation but so Willa could make sure Jenny wasn’t mad at her. Reading one page led to reading another and another, until Willa finally realized Jenny was in the friendship primarily so she could borrow Willa’s zip-ankle Guess jeans.
Just last week, while smoking weed one night with the coaches at one of their condos, she’d taken the bong every time it was passed to her and found herself couch-locked. She was mute, unable to move, and certain she was greening out. One thing was for sure: you couldn’t say Willa ever did anything half-assed. When she took something on — be it a work project, or an argument, or a relationship, or a drug — she was wholly unable to walk away until the job was complete, the chapter closed, all possibilities exhausted, all fun had.
Now, sitting in front of Pete’s laptop, she was simultaneously disgusted with herself for snooping and grateful that Gmail organized emails by conversation, making it easier to see the timeline of his dialogue with Beth Calloway who — according to a separate search on Facebook — was not 70 years old but rather 38 and divorced and kind of beautiful.
She was Charlie’s class parent (news to Willa, since she never got around to opening emails from the school), carried a New Yorker tote bag to pick up ramps (?) at farmer’s markets, liked wine, and ran a lot of 5Ks. Her other interests included gardening, Kelly Clarkson’s music, and international diplomacy.
And, as the emails revealed, Pete.
The correspondence started out innocently enough, with Pete asking a question about how to contribute money to a Starbucks gift card for the teacher, then slowly evolved to reveal that these were two people seeking connection, a spark, a little bit of fire in their lives. Willa knew that feeling well.
“It’s so nice to meet someone who really gets me.”
“Thanks for the coffee, and the hugs, yesterday.”
“She should appreciate you more.”
“You should skip work and go on a hike with me on Wednesday morning. Our secret.”
“Stop bashing yourself. You’re smart, funny, good-looking, and anyone would be lucky to be with you.”
When she saw the emails begin to tread into more controversial territory — “that was really fun yesterday” and “your skin is so much softer than I expected, in a good way” — Willa didn’t immediately scream betrayal or assume the role of cuckolded spouse.
The rules of marriage state that we are to be faithful at all times, no matter what our hearts tell us or what is going on inside the partnership that might be making one or the other person feel hurt, tired, bored, or abandoned. We are told that it’s not enough to be best friends, excellent roommates, and fantastic co-parents. The marriage is supposed to provide all of the intimate connection we could ever require, and we should not even expose ourselves to other possibilities, lest we somehow get swept up and away.
But if a person is capable of getting swept up and away, should he be stopped? Didn’t he deserve all of the happiness he could get his hands on in this short life? Didn’t she?
Was Willa supposed to say, “stay away from Beth or else” and let this situation and her own actions explode the marriage into bits, throwing the kids’ lives into chaos when Willa and Pete still loved each other but maybe needed something outside their marriage’s puritanical parameters?
And maybe all of this was temporary. When she pictured herself as an elderly person, she pictured wearing matching Crocs and eating yogurt with Pete, and she hoped he pictured that too. But they weren’t elderly yet. Maybe the right thing to do now, while they were young enough and energetic enough, was to open their minds to feelings for other people while remaining safe, respectful, and loving in the primary partnership.
These thoughts flooded her mind as she compulsively continued reading through the emails.
As she arrived at the last note from Beth, time-stamped just a few hours ago — “when can I see you again? — Willa was hit with a tsunami-sized wave of grief. Grief for a marriage that was once romantic but was now more platonic and logistic, a marriage in which both of them were clearly angry and very lonely.
Willa closed his laptop and climbed into their bed, rolling over to his side of the bed, which frequently seemed very far away, and lay her head on his pillow. Then she pulled her weighted blanket over and on top of her body and started to cry softly.
She wasn’t sure what to do about this situation. Maybe she should confront him gently and offer up the opportunity to stay together while he sorted out his feelings for Beth. Maybe this was all a sign that the marriage was dead. Or maybe she could put a pin in this and tackle it another time.
Then her phone buzzed.
“WYD?”
It was Jeremy. She laughed a little as she wiped her nose.
“What are you, Gen Z? ‘WYD?’”
“ROFLMAO,” he wrote.
“Ah, OK, now you seem your age,” she wrote back.
“What (Are) You Doing?” he texted.
“I was supposed to have an important meeting with a client but they bailed. I have a couple of hours before I head to the studio to coach.”
“Wanna meet me for lunch?” he asked. “My treat.”
She cleared the tears from her eyes and responded: “Sure.”