The first time I saw my husband kiss my best friend, I was standing in the aisle of an airplane, holding a handbag in one hand and a boarding pass in the other.
For several seconds, I couldn’t move.
Ryan’s hand was resting against Megan’s cheek. She was smiling at him in a way I’d seen a hundred times before, except that she’d never looked at him that way when I was around. He whispered something into her ear, and she giggled before leaning forward to kiss him again.
Then she rested her head against his shoulder.
My husband kissed the top of her head.
It was such a small, familiar gesture. That was what made it unbearable.
I’d seen Ryan do the same thing to me on countless evenings when I was exhausted from taking care of our three children. I’d felt that kiss on my forehead when he left for work, when I worried about our bills, and when I cried after my father died.
