I froze. Those hands were foreign. They weren’t Chris’s long, smooth fingers. No one else had touched my bare skin in so long that I couldn’t ignore how shocking the sensation was. Why I hadn’t noticed the difference between Evan and Chris during our kiss, I couldn’t say, but now it was palpable.

“Evan,” I said, pushing him away slightly.

His hands dropped, roaming my hips, but I couldn’t shake the sense of surprise, of something wrong.

“Stop,” I said. “Please.”

The air felt cool as he stepped back. “What is it?”

“I can’t.”

“What’s wrong?”

I laughed, a desperate shaking laugh. “I’m married!” My voice sounded hysterical. Near tears. “And I love my husband. I really do.”

Somehow kissing Evan, and the dismay I suddenly felt at my betrayal, had made Chris and me seem as clear as new glass, where the image had been foggy before. Somewhere in our history, as well as in the recent weeks, I’d had passion with Chris, I’d had affection, I’d had caring. I’d had the whole deal. It wasn’t lost, as I’d feared over the last few years. The intimacy just needed to be worked at and maintained and balanced. We needed to put together the passion and conversation of recent times, with the independence of old. We still had the pieces and the very real love for each other. This thing with Evan, on the other hand, was just a shard of something, a splinter of sexual longing.

“Okay,” Evan said. “Hold on.”

I heard him moving through the room, swearing as he bumped into something. Then the small lamp went on. Evan was sitting on the edge of the bed, panting. His shirt was askew, his hair standing at odd angles.

“I’m sorry,” I said. I tugged my sweater and bra into place and crossed my arms. I leaned against the closed door.

He shook his head, straightened his shirt. “No, it was my fault.”

“It was both of us.”

“Right.” He looked at me, a questioning look that said, What do we do now?

“I’ve got to go.” I opened the door, and left Evan sitting on the bed.

“Where have you been?” I heard Chris call from the living room as I opened the door.

It was only nine o’clock when I got home, but I felt as if it were the middle of the night. The martinis, the fevered kissing and the shame had made me exhausted.

I leaned my head against the doorjamb. “A party,” I said softly.

I stepped inside and closed the door. Chris sat on the big chair, smiling, as if I were the only person he’d want to see at that moment. I fought not to cry.

“A party on a Wednesday?” he said.

“I know. Weird, huh?” But it was me who sounded weird, my voice small, hollow, as if it came from a tin can.

“Let me guess. Evan’s friends?”

At the word “Evan,” the remorse flattened me. I could barely stand.

“You all right, Treetop?” Chris came to me, his arms encircling my body.

But I couldn’t stand his touch, not when Evan’s arms had been there only fifteen minutes before. “Fine, fine.” I pulled away.

“Did you eat dinner?”

“No.”

“Great, I’ll make you some pasta with truffle oil. It’s a new recipe I’m trying out.”

“Chris, don’t.” I couldn’t bear the thought of his kindness. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Well, I’ll join you.” He ruffled my hair, leaning his tall body down to kiss my neck.

I pulled away again. “I…I can’t.”

“You can’t what?” Chris’s face was confused.

I can’t live with myself.

But instead, I said, “I’m just so tired.”

“Okay, sweetie, I’ll start the water for you.”

“No, don’t.” The thought of him doing anything was too painful, making the shame unbearable.

Chris’s face fell at my harsh words.

I was fucking up everything, hurting everyone. My head swam with flashbacks of what had happened tonight with Evan. Not one cohesive thought could take hold. “I’m just going to go to bed,” I said. I went into the bedroom. I stood for minutes, glaring at the frog until I finally turned off the light.

I nfidelity is not a warm and fuzzy concept. It’s not a word you’d find embroidered on a pillow or placed in a calico frame. And yet, infidelity has so strong a pull for so many people. I’d never considered myself part of that unfaithful population, or even on the outside looking in. In fact, the only real person that I knew who might have had an affair was my father.

He was gone from our house one day, just gone, like a bird that had flown south for the winter. My mother was grief-stricken. She cried. She stared out windows, as if waiting, praying, for his gold Cadillac Eldorado to pull down the drive. And yet at other times, she was matter-of-fact about it, even stoic. She sold our white house with the two-story columns, and she moved us across town to the apartment by the old hospital.

Often I traipsed down the back apartment stairs, which smelled like a strange, sweet smoke from the Indian couple who lived on the first floor, and went into the cement yard. An old picnic table, gray from the weather, was chained to the side of the building, and if I stood on it, I could see the cupola on our old house-a tiny, white-painted room made all of windows, peeking over the town.

One day, my sister Hadley came outside while I was there. She wore yellow pants and a white T-shirt with a dark smear near the shoulder. There was a scratch on her face, probably from getting in another fight at school. The fact that she and Dustin had these brawls with classmates made them seem like different beings. Not normal girls or sisters, certainly nothing like me. “What are you doing?” she said.

“Just looking.”

In one fluid leap, Hadley was on the table next to me. We stared at the cupola in silence.

Finally, Hadley said, “He’s probably got a girlfriend.”

“Who has?”

She scoffed. “Dad. That’s why men leave. To get other girls.”

“Oh.” This was new information. My mother had always said that he had business to take care of, that he would be back eventually. I’d stopped believing that he would return, but for some reason I’d never questioned the statement that he’d left because of business.

I never learned what the real story was, which only made my anxiety, disappointment and obsession about my father grow. Infidelity was always a possibility, though, one I abhorred on behalf of my mother and her tearstained face.

Now, I was busy hating myself, too, for what I’d nearly done the other night with Evan. What I’d wanted very much to do.

To tell or not to tell? That is the goddamned question.

Confessing to Chris was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? Certainly hardcore honesty was the way to go. Or was I only trying to assuage my guilt by considering such a thing? Wasn’t I hoping Chris would absolve me from the shame? And if so, wouldn’t I be a better person to simply live with that shame instead of hurting Chris when really nothing had happened? But something had happened, even if it wasn’t full-on sex. Which brought me around to square one.

I called Tess, and we met at a coffee shop on Clark Street. We took our foaming lattes outside to a black metal table. She was beaming now about her pregnancy-it had settled around her.

“Maybe someday you and Chris will join us in Baby Land,” she said, smiling serenely, patting her belly.

“Maybe.” I knew in that moment I couldn’t tell her. Her husband, Tim, worked with Chris. She and Tim had introduced us. If they knew, it could affect all of our friendships. I drank my latte and kept quiet.

When I left Tess, I tried my mom. But when we met at Milrose again-me brimming with my secret, with my need for some seasoned, even harsh, maternal advice-she had brought two women from her neighborhood.

“Ellen and Mary,” she said, “this is my daughter Billy.”