Someone Else's Husband(86)

She needs to know. She deserves to. Is sharing the truth a little self-serving, too? Maybe. But it can be both things. Good for her and good for me. But it can’t come from me. It would seem like I have ulterior motives, which I guess I do. But that doesn’t change the facts.

I love her. I know that much for sure. And, right now, that’s exactly as simple and complicated as it seems. Sometimes you can just know something, though. That someone is the one, for instance. She feels the same way. Deep down. All the rest of it, the things she does that don’t fit—they’re just theater.

We’ve been speaking the same language from the start.

When I see her across a room, her face bathed in light, she is the only thing that matters to me. Like today in the Temple of Dendur at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She sat facing what was left of that building, just sat and sat and sat. Staring at it with this far-off look on her face. I wanted so badly to go over and ask her what she was thinking, to crawl inside her head and stay there.

But not today. Not yet. This thing is going to take time. It’s a project that needs the right approach. A delicate one. But that’s okay. I’m a patient man. And I’ve got time.





Before


Frankie

September 10

It’s still early when I wake up. Though “wake up” is an overstatement. I’ve hardly slept at all. But a pale-gray light is pouring in through my windows. Morning. I can finally give up and pretend the long, miserable night never happened. Not to mention everything before: the Senator, the NDA, Noah. God—Noah.

And then there’s Richard’s text, the one I got shortly after Noah left. Can we see each other again? I feel like there are things I still need to say…

I continue to ignore the message. Or rather try to ignore it. That’s a better way of putting it. I need to tell Richard about this second photo. Warn him that the Senator really does seem unstable, that he might tell Richard’s wife. Is there a tiny part of me that secretly hopes he won’t care because he plans to tell his wife himself—because he really wants to be with me?

Maybe.

Is that even what I want? It’s so easy to lose sight of your own feelings when you’re focused on trying to understand the contours of someone else’s.

I roll out of bed and head to the kitchen. Coffee. That’s what I need. As it’s brewing, I glance down the long hallway toward the back room—technically it’s the bedroom, but I use it as the living room, so I can watch the sun rise from my bed. No matter where I sleep, the railroad layout is odd and awkward and the apartment is small—compact front room, skinny kitchen, tiny back bedroom. The front door in between. But I love this apartment. It feels like the place I was always meant to be.

I think again of Richard’s last text, try to read between the lines even though it’s hardly necessary. He wants to see me again. Sent at 1:36 a.m. Because he couldn’t sleep either.

And so what? Richard can be a catalyst to this new life of mine. But he shouldn’t be a part of it. Neither should the Senator. This new life is mine.

Noah, on the other hand—I’ll make it up to him somehow. He’s joining Max upstate this weekend at their house in Rhinebeck. He’s always in a better mood after being upstate. When he gets back, I’ll throw myself at his feet. I can start now with a text.

You’re right to be angry, Noah. All I can say is how much you mean to me as a friend. You’re the last person I’d ever want to hurt. I will do anything to make it up to you. Please don’t give up on me. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know. xo Frankie

I stare at the message after I hit send. No immediate ellipses. He needs time. I have to believe he’ll eventually come around.

For now, I’ll try to focus on painting. My work has always been my home. Maybe, someday, I’ll find the right person to meet me there.



* * *



*

The summit was everything I’d hoped for and yet nothing like I’d imagined—vast and snowcapped and endlessly flat. Deserted, too, but for the sign marking it as the highest point in all of Africa, one of the highest in the world. I started crying when I saw it in the distance. We were so high that it felt like you could reach up and touch the cerulean sky.

We’d made it. I had made it.

It had been touch-and-go up until the very end. The last stretch of climbing was way worse than I’d expected. Short, like Bakari had said. Only about an hour. And this time we could see the real end—there would be no more false summits. But something about the wide-open topography and the accumulated exhaustion meant that the more we hiked, the farther away the final ridge seemed. The pitch was nearly vertical and without rocks to grab. The freezing wind had also picked up again, tearing at the bits of exposed skin around our eyes.

I sucked down three gel packets as we went, waiting and waiting for the usual sugar high. But my body was so spent, I felt nothing.

And then, all at once, we were there. The final few steps, the last ridge just a low line of stones. Then a plane of white under a brilliant, cloudless blue sky. I bent over for a moment, head throbbing as the tears came. A flood of so many emotions at the exact same moment. Joy. Relief. Delight. Triumph.

But also a strange sort of grief. It was time to say goodbye to the broken girl I’d been carrying all these years, the girl with a brave, open heart. Too open. It was time to lay her down. To let her be. I knew it, and I was ready. But long-overdue closure is also a kind of loss. You need to recalibrate your equilibrium in its wake.