'That's probably not a good idea.'
He chewed his lower lip.
'You know, I never visited you at work, when we were married. Not once.'
'I know.'
'I can finally cross that off my list of should-haves.' He tried to smile. 'Have a nice life, Jack.'
'You too, Alan.'
He walked out.
The first time he left me, I didn't try to stop him. I always wondered what would have happened if I'd tried. Would we have lasted? Would we have worked out our problems? Would love have conquered all?
Was I destined to keep making the same mistakes, over and over again?
'Alan . . . wait.'
He turned, eyes hopeful.
'Yeah?'
Looking at him, I knew.
'You're wearing my jacket.'
Alan took off the bomber jacket, held it out.
I went to him.
Our hands met.
'Jack, I love this jacket too much to give it up.'
'So do I.'
'Maybe we can work out some kind of joint custody.'
'Maybe.'
'Can we discuss it over dinner?'
'That might be best.'
I touched his face, wiped off a tear with my thumb.
'Can I call you? After work?'
'No. The work can wait.'
'Excuse me?'
'The work can wait, Alan. Let's go.'
We didn't go out to dinner. We went to his hotel room at the Raphael, where I played with fire.
Twice.
Chapter 32
I stared at the ceiling, naked and tangled in a sheet, sleep a faraway concept.
Alan slept curled up next to me. Looking at him, I felt an odd mixture of love and remorse. The sex had been good, like putting on an old pair of blue jeans you haven't worn in ages. Alan and I knew each other's buttons.
I'd called Mom earlier, explaining I wouldn't be home, without giving her details.
She figured them out anyway.
'I'll let Nathan know where you are if he calls.'
'His name is Latham, Mom. And no, you won't. If he calls or drops by, have him call my cell.'
Latham never did call, and I felt another odd mixture, of guilt and relief. I fleetingly wished I could feel just one emotion at a time, but that added confusion to my melting pot of conflicting feelings.
The ceiling had no answers for me.
I didn't have any sleeping pills, and my insomnia knew it; shifting, restless leg syndrome, unable to get comfortable in any position.
At two in the morning, heart palpitations and shallow breathing hopped on the symptom train, and I knew enough modern psychology to recognize I was having a panic attack.
It was horrible.
I'd had a physical, four months back, and been given a clean bill of health, so I knew this wasn't a heart attack. But still, I was enveloped by an overwhelming sense that I was going to die.
I got out of bed, paced, did some push-ups, tried yoga, drank two glasses of water, flipped through fifteen channels with the mute button on, and finally just sat in a corner, clutching my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth.
At five in the morning, in a near hysterical effort to simplify my life, I went into the bathroom and called Latham.
'Jack? That you?'
