He stood on the front porch. He didn’t use his key. He knocked. Like a stranger.
I opened the door. I didn’t let him in.
“Jenna,” he said. He looked terrible. He hadn’t shaved. His eyes were bloodshot. “Please. Can we talk?”
“We can talk,” I said. “Out here.”
We sat on the front steps. The kids were at school. The street was quiet. A leaf blower was going somewhere down the block.
He talked for a long time. He said it started as nothing. He said Rachel was always flirting and he always ignored it, and then at the wedding, during the dance, she whispered something in his ear, and he didn’t know why, but he whispered something back. He said it was just texting at first. Just
words. He said it made him feel young. He said our life had gotten so routine, so boring, soccer practice and grocery lists and bedtimes, and Rachel was exciting. Rachel was dangerous. Rachel made him feel like somebody who took risks.
