This was not the best case and it was not the worst case. This was the middle case, not a stranger and not an enemy. The middle case is tough because it includes two betrayals, that of your wife and that of the other guy. If the other guy is a golfing buddy or some Joe who’s just the husband of one of your wife’s friends, then his betrayal isn’t worth much. He’s just another shithead. If the other guy is your father or your brother, a close blood relative, then his betrayal may be worse than hers. A wife is not blood. I might beat the living hell out of my brother but in the end I’d probably stick with the blood and can the woman. You can replace a wife.
She was fucking my best friend. Right there on the security monitor, I could see the anticipation of the sex to come. She was fucking my best friend.
Tom was betraying our friendship with my wife. He was best man at my wedding and, at his wedding, I shared that job with his younger brother. I’d know Sherry for four and a half years, but I’d known Tom for twenty, since we were seven years old. He knew what Sherry meant to me. He knew what marriage and commitment and trust meant to me. That hurt.
My new friend, the desk clerk, understood. We shook hands, our friendship never to be diminished by petty misunderstandings and never to be enlarged by late night drinks and basketball. I walked across the street, got in my car and went to the driving range. I hit two large buckets of balls. By the middle of the second bucket, my mid-irons were drawing nicely. My woods were crisp. I crushed a 4-iron, absolutely crushed it. I held my follow through, watching the ball soar, enjoying the moment of perfection. Golf is a damned hard game, enlivened by acts of absolute clarity.
On the spur of the moment, I called Tom’s house. “Hey Peg. How you doing? That’s great. I’m on my way back a little early and was wondering if you guys would want to get together for dinner. When? Tonight, tomorrow, your call. Right . . . so why don’t we do it tonight? No, I think we should go out . . . OK. . . Sure. Seven at Ciro’s would be good. Yeah . . . Bye.” I’d crushed that call just like the 4-iron.
I called the house and left a message, “Honey, I’m going to get home early today, so I called Peg and arranged for us to meet them at Ciro’s at 7. I’ll call you on your cell.” I left the same message on her cell phone.
I got home at 6. Sherry was in the shower. Her gym bag was open on the floor. I couldn’t resist, so I went through it – nothing. I picked her panties out of the hamper and smoothed them out, looking for stains or sticky patches. Nothing.
“Hey baby,” I called through the bathroom door. “I have to shower too.”
“I’ll be out in a minute.”
The thought hit me: this might be the last time I can have sex with her before the shit hits the fan. Whatever happens next, things between us will definitely be different. I dropped my clothes, walked in, opened the shower door, stepped in and took her gently into my arms. “Baby, you feel so good,” I whispered in her ear.