Chapter 2

The warm, yeasty scent of beer and the low murmur of conversation wash over me as I step into the dimly lit pub. It’s a Saturday night, but this place, a few miles from our usual haunts, is pleasantly quiet, the crowd a mix of regulars and after-work stragglers. My eyes scan the room, quickly landing on my target—a figure impossible to miss.

Marcus sits at a corner table, his large frame dwarfing the wooden chair, his presence radiating a quiet strength that draws the eye. He’s reading something on his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration, but as I approach, he looks up, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“Mike,” he greets me, extending a hand. “Good to see you.”

“Hey, Marcus,” I reply, shaking his hand.

I take a seat across from him, feeling a strange mix of ease and apprehension settle over me.

“What’ll you have?”

“Just a beer, thanks,” I reply, and he nods, signaling to the bartender.

We fall into easy conversation—sports, the weather, a new restaurant we both want to try. Casual, meaningless chatter that fills the silence.

The game flickers on a TV screen in the corner, a distraction we both pretend to be interested in.

Our beers arrive, frosty mugs sweating on the worn wooden table.

“So,” Marcus says, after a long pull from his glass. “What brings you out this way? Everything alright?”

“Yeah, all good,” I reply, forcing a casualness I don’t quite feel. “Just wanted to ... well, wanted to thank you again for those tips on the Peterson deal. Your advice really helped. We closed it this week.”

“It was nothing, Mike. Happy to help.”

“No, seriously, it was very helpful,” I insist. “You saved us a lot of time on that one.”

“Glad I could be of service.”

A silence falls between us then, heavy with unspoken words and shared memories.

I think back on all the times we’ve crossed paths since that night—the awkward elevator encounters, the brief chats at the gym, the occasional beers after a game. We’ve never talked about it, never acknowledged the elephant in the room.

Except once.

Our first encounter, two days after that night, had been excruciating. He’d apologized profusely for coming inside Emma, his face etched with worry. I’d mumbled reassurances, telling him it was fine, that she was on birth control, hating the way my cheeks burned with shame. He’d seemed relieved, asking after Emma, about how we were doing, before the conversation mercifully shifted to safer territory.

Gradually, our meetings became less strained. He’d offer me workout tips at the gym, share gossip about mutual acquaintances in the parking lot, slip back into the easy camaraderie we’d enjoyed before ... everything changed. Well not exactly but still it was not that awkward anymore.

We’d gone to a couple of games together, just like we used to, but even those had been tinged with a new kind of tension.

He’s good company, really. That much is true. Kind, friendly, a genuinely good guy ... or so he seems.

But why did I keep seeking him out? Why not just avoid him completely, like Emma did?

I take a long gulp of my beer, trying to swallow down the questions swirling in my mind.

“This beer’s really good.”

“Yeah, it’s a local micro-brew,” he replies. “They use honey from a nearby farm in the brewing process. Gives it a unique ... flavor.”

“Ohh, interesting. I should bring Emma here sometime, she’d love this place,” I say, watching him closely, gauging his reaction.

His expression remains neutral, open. “You should. I’m sure you guys would have a great time.”

I nod, but his words do little to ease the unease that’s settling in my gut.

We lapse back into silence, the game on the TV providing a welcome distraction from the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. I finish my beer, the cold liquid a welcome balm against the sudden heat creeping up my neck.

Taking a deep breath, I decide to change tactics.

“Have you seen Rhonda and Chris lately?” I ask, trying to sound casual, but the words catch in my throat, betraying my nervousness.

“No, they moved out a few weeks ago.”

“Moved out? What? When?”

“About a month ago, I think. Chris got a great job offer down in Miami, so they decided to pack up and head south.”

“Wow, didn’t know that. Good for them,” I say, genuinely surprised by the news. It felt strange though, a little unsettling even, to know that they ... were suddenly gone.

“Yeah, good for them. They deserve it. Chris has really worked hard for it.”

The conversation stalls again, the silence stretching out between us, punctuated by the occasional clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter from the bar. I drain the rest of my beer, a sudden restlessness taking hold.

“Excuse me for a minute,” I mumble, rising from my chair.

The bathroom is small and dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and disinfectant. I step up to the urinal, relieving myself, the sound echoing in the confined space. Then, I splash cold water on my face, staring into the mirror above the sink. My reflection stares back, my eyes bloodshot, my face pale under the harsh fluorescent light.

I return to the table, my heart pounding in my chest. I take a deep breath, trying to calm the nervous flutter in my stomach.

“There’s ... something I wanted to talk to you about.”

He raises an eyebrow, setting his beer down. “Oh?”

“About ... that night.”

Marcus studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. “What about it?”

My mouth opens, then closes again. I suddenly feel foolish, unsure of how to articulate the jumbled thoughts swirling in my head.

“I just ... I don’t know ... I’m surprised you never brought it up.”

He chuckles softly, taking a sip of his beer. “It wasn’t really my place, was it? I figured you and Emma needed to talk about it, work things out between yourselves. It’s not my business to pry. Besides, I could tell it was ... awkward, especially for Emma. I figured you both needed some space to process things.”

“Yeah, it’s been ... strange, for both of us,” I admit, thinking of Emma’s stiff silence whenever Marcus was around, the way she practically fled whenever he is in vicinity.

“I noticed.” He pauses, then recounts an incident from a few weeks ago. “I ran into her in the lobby the other day, and she ... well, she practically ran in the other direction.”

“She didn’t mean anything by it,” I say quickly, feeling the need to defend her. “She was just—”

“Mike, you don’t need to apologize,” Marcus cuts me off, his voice gentle but firm. “I get it.”

“You ... you do?”

“Of course I do ... Look, it’s not easy, is it? Everything in our society ... programs women to be ashamed of their sexuality, to deny their pleasure. It teaches them that wanting something like this ... wanting to be wanted ... it makes them dirty, wrong. It starts young—the slut-shaming, the double standards, the constant message that their desires are somehow wrong, dirty, something to be hidden.”

He pauses, taking another sip of his beer. “So yeah, I get it. Emma’s embarrassed. It’s a natural reaction. It’s all good. There’s absolutely no need to apologize. It’s a shame, really. Women deserve to explore their desires, to experience pleasure without shame. It’s ... well, it’s a beautiful thing. When they allow themselves to let go.”

“Sometimes, Marcus,” I say, shaking my head, “you sound like you’re running some kind of feminist sex cult.”

He throws back his head and laughs, a deep, resonant sound that draws a few curious glances from the surrounding tables. “Maybe I should start one,” he replies, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “We could call it ‘The Church of Embracing Your Pleasure.’”

The laughter fades, and a more serious expression crosses his face. “But seriously, Mike, is everything okay between you two? I never wanted to ... mess things up. That wasn’t my intention at all.”

“No, you didn’t mess anything up,” I say, meeting his gaze. “If anything, you ... well, you made things better. Emma’s been ... amazing since that night.”

“Amazing, huh?”

“Yeah. I mean, she’s still the same Emma, the woman I love, but there’s this ... new side to her ... new energy about her. Like she’s more confident, more ... in touch with herself ... if that makes any sense.”

“That’s great, Mike. I’m happy for you both.”

“And God, the sex...” I shake my head, unable to contain a grin. “We’re fucking like rabbits. Not that I’m complaining—our sex life was always good—but now it’s like ... she’s always ready, always eager.”

“I hear you, man. Emma’s a beautiful woman, inside and out. You gotta cultivate that, keep her interested.”

“I’m trying,” I chuckle, taking another sip of my beer.

“So,” Marcus says, leaning forward slightly, his gaze intent. “Have you two thought about ... doing it again?”

“We’ve talked about it, here and there. But Emma’s ... hesitant. I think she’s worried about ... I don’t know, about crossing that line again, about what it might do to us.”

“That’s a valid reaction,” he replies, nodding understandingly. “You’re stepping into uncharted territory. It’s natural to be cautious. You just need to keep talking, figure out where you both stand, what you’re both comfortable with.”

“We’ve been pretty open, I think,” I reply. “More than we ever have before.”

“Good. Communication is key. You need to be open, vulnerable ... trust each other to navigate this new territory together.”

“We’re figuring it out, I guess.”

“But what about you, Mike?”

“What about me?”

“I get that Emma’s ... well, where she is. But what about you?”

His gaze holds mine. And then, he asks the question that I knew, deep down, was coming. The question he’s asked me in a thousand different ways, at every turn in this twisted path we’ve been navigating.

And I still don’t have a good answer.

“What is that you want, Mike?”

The blue light of my phone screen illuminates my face as I scroll through an endless stream of news articles and social media updates, none of which manage to hold my attention. My mind is elsewhere, replaying the conversation with Marcus, dissecting every word, every nuance, searching for answers.

What do I want?

After weeks of agonizing, analyzing, and trying to dissect my own desires and motivations, I’ve finally reached a decision.

I find Emma in the kitchen, humming softly to herself as she prepares dinner, the aroma of garlic and herbs filling the air. I lean against the counter, watching her move around the familiar space, her movements efficient, her brow furrowed in concentration.

For a while, I just watch. The way the light catches the curve of her neck, the way she bites her lip in concentration, the familiar scent of her perfume ... it’s a scene I’ve witnessed a thousand times, a familiar warmth settling in my chest despite the knot of anxiety tightening in my gut.

“Did you hear about Chris and Rhonda?” I ask casually, trying to sound nonchalant.

She glances up, her brow furrowed. “No, what about them?”

“They moved. Down south, to Miami, I think.”

“Really? Wow, that’s ... unexpected.” She sets down the knife, her eyes widening in surprise. “When did this happen?”

“About a month ago, apparently. Chris got some big job offer.”

“Huh. Well, good for them. Miami sounds ... fun.”

She goes back to chopping vegetables, her movements a little more hesitant now, a thoughtful expression on her face.

“New beginnings, right?” I say, trying not to let my own anxieties bleed into the conversation. “A fresh start. Maybe ... maybe it’s exactly what they needed.”

“Maybe...” She turns back to the stove, stirring the sauce she’s making, her movements a little more distracted now. “They always seemed ... I don’t know ... happy enough. Content. It’s hard to imagine them just uprooting their whole life like that.”

I shift on my legs, gathering my courage. “Speaking of unexpected ... You’ll never guess what Victor told me the other night.”

“What did he do now? Try to start a bar fight?”

I chuckle. “Worse. You remember how ... well, how he always gave you a hard time about quitting the firm to become a teacher?”

“Oh God, don’t remind me,” she groans, rolling her eyes. “He’ll never let it go, will he?”

“Probably not.” I chuckle, then add, “But it turns out ... well, let’s just say Victor might not be the best person to lecture anyone about conventional life choices.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He and Sydney ... back in the day ... they were... swingers.”

Emma’s jaw drops. “Swingers? Victor and Syd? Seriously? You’re kidding ... right?”

“I’m dead serious.” I watch her face closely, taking in her reaction— a mixture of shock, disbelief, and a hint of something else I can’t quite place.

“Is that so...” She turns back to her cooking, her movements a little more forceful now, as if she’s channeling her disbelief into chopping vegetables. “Well, well, well ... the things you learn about people.” She pauses, shaking her head. “They never struck me as the type. Quiet Victor and prim and proper Sydney ... going to ... what, sex clubs? It seems impossible.”

“That’s what I thought, too. But apparently ... it’s true. He said it was a long time ago when they were younger and more ... adventurous. Went to clubs, did the whole swapping thing...”

“Victor told you?” she repeats, skepticism lacing her voice. “Since when is he so ... open about his personal life?”

“I swear, it’s true. He spilled the whole story after a few too many scotches.”

“I bet he did,” she mutters. “Why are you bringing this up, anyway?”

I shrug, avoiding her gaze. “Just ... thought it was interesting. I guess it just goes to show ... you never really know what goes on behind closed doors, do you?”

Emma shrugs, her attention still focused on her chopping. “I guess not. People keep secrets.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “Even the people we think we know best.”

“What are you getting at, Mike?”

“Nothing, really,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, but I know I’m not fooling her. “Just thinking out loud. About them ... about us...”

She sets the knife down, turning to face me fully, her arms crossed over her chest. “No, you’re not. You’re trying to say something. What is it?”

I shift on the stool, the words I need to say lodged in my throat like a cluster of thorns. It’s harder than I thought it would be, confessing this, admitting to the darkness that’s taken root within me.

Emma, sensing my hesitation, tries to deflect. “Well, dinner will be ready soon. How about another glass of wine?”

“Emma... “ I look into her eyes, my gaze holding hers, refusing to let her escape. “We need to talk. About ... about what we want.”

“Okay, and...? What about it?”

“It’s just ... Victor’s story got me thinking. About us. About ... boundaries. About what we’re comfortable with, what we’re not.”

“Mike, we’ve already gone through this. We’re not Chris and Rhonda. We’re happy, we have a great marriage, and we don’t need to...”

“I know, I know,” I say, holding up my hands in a gesture of appeasement. “But ... can we at least talk about it? Honestly? Without shutting down the conversation before it even starts?”

She sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly. “What’s there to talk about, Mike?”

“Everything, Emma. Everything.”

“But I thought ... I thought we were doing great,” she insists, her voice taking on a defensive edge. “Aren’t we?”

“We are,” I agree, reaching for her hand, but she pulls away, her gaze fixed on the countertop. “That’s what’s so confusing. Everything ... the sex, the talking ... it’s amazing. You’re amazing.”

“Then why?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper. “Why bring this up again? Why open this ... this can of worms? Why can’t we just ... be happy with what we have?”

“Because...” I hesitate, searching for the right words. “Because I think a door’s been opened, Emma. A door we never knew existed. And maybe ... maybe we need ... to at least take a peek inside before we slam it shut.”

She scoffs, a humorless laugh escaping her lips. “That’s a terrible analogy, Mike. This isn’t some magical doorway to a wonderland. It’s a dangerous path, a slippery slope. We had a wild night. It happened. We talked about it. We moved on.” Her voice rises slightly, and I see the fear in her eyes, the thing she’s trying so hard to hide. “Why can’t we just leave it at that?”

“Because it’s not that simple, Em.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s changed things. Us. Me.”

“How? We’re having more sex, better sex ... you’re not complaining about that, are you?”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Then what are you talking about?” She throws her hands up in exasperation. “Because I don’t get it, Mike! I really don’t! You’re the one who keeps bringing it up. You’re the one who can’t seem to let it go. I’m fine! Why aren’t you?”

“Because I keep thinking what if there’s something amazing waiting for us on the other side?” I press, my voice softening. “What if it could make us ... better? Stronger? More connected?”

“And what if it destroys everything? What if it breaks us?”

“But we’re stronger than that, Emma. Our love, our bond ... it can withstand anything.”

“Can it, Mike? Can it really?”

She turns away from me, her shoulders slumping, and I see a flicker of fear in her eyes, a vulnerability that makes my heart ache.

“Because I’m scared, Mike,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “I’m terrified of where this will lead.”

“What are you scared of? That you’ll fall for him?”

“No!” She scoffs, pulling her hand away. “God, no. It’s not that.’’

“Then what is it?”

“What happens when one day you wake up and look at me differently?” she asks, her voice cracking with emotion. “What happens when I become ... untouchable to you? When you start to resent me, hate me, for what I did, for what I enjoyed?”

She takes a deep breath, her eyes pleading with me to understand. “I know you’ve been reading those forums, talking to people online. They all say it’s so easy, so liberating, about how hot it is to watch, about how it makes them feel hot...” “ She shakes her head. “Maybe it works for some people, maybe it even makes them closer, like you said. But Mike ... I also see the ones who break up. People can’t get past it. I see the couples who fall apart, marriages that crumble under the weight of jealousy and insecurity.” She looks at me, her eyes pleading. “What if that’s us? What if that’s what happens to us?”

She continues, “I’m scared that this ... this thing ... it’ll change you. That you’ll ... you’ll grow to resent me, to hate me... ‘‘

“Hate you?” I chuckle mirthlessly. “Never. How could I ever hate you? You’re my...” I trail off, the word wife catching in my throat, suddenly feeling inadequate, ill-fitting.

I stare at her, my chest tightening. I get it. Of course, I do. It’s a fear I share, a dark undercurrent to the thrill, the excitement, the forbidden hunger that’s been consuming me. As alluring as the fantasy is, the potential consequences are just as real. The risk is undeniable.

We would be playing with fire, quite literally.

“Emma, look at me,” I say, reaching for her hand again, this time holding it firm, lacing my fingers through hers. “We’re past that point now, aren’t we? We crossed that line. We did things ... things most couples would never even consider.” My voice softens, my thumb stroking her skin. “And I’m still here ... I still love you. More than ever, maybe.”

“But ... what happens in the future? What if ... what if this changes things between us? We don’t know, Mike. What if...”

“Come on, Em, divorces happen all the time.” I give her hand a gentle squeeze. “For a thousand different reasons, for no reason at all. People fall out of love, they cheat, they grow apart ... there are no guarantees in life, no matter how much we try to control things. Look at Jeff and Sarah ... they got married right out of high school, never even looked at another person, and they split up last year. We could wake up tomorrow and realize we’re not right for each other anymore, and it wouldn’t have anything to do with Marcus or any of this. It could just ... be. We could get hit by a bus tomorrow, or fall out of love for no reason at all. Are we going to stop living our lives, stop taking risks, because of what might happen?”

I look at her, really look at her, and I see the woman I fell in love with, the woman who makes me laugh, the woman who challenges me, who makes me want to be a better man. And I know, with a certainty that transcends logic, that no matter what choices we make, no matter how far we stray from the path we thought we were on...

“You’re really pushing for this, aren’t you?” she says, her gaze searching mine. “Why? Why are you arguing for this ... this thing ... so hard?”

“It’s ... complicated.”

“No, it’s really not.”

“I told you, I’m...” The words catch in my throat. The truth is right there, on the tip of my tongue, but it feels too dangerous to utter, too explosive.

“Maybe it’s not complicated,’’ I finally admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe it’s just ... fucked up.” I look away, unable to meet her gaze, shame burning in my cheeks. “The thing is, Em ... seeing you... like that. Knowing that another man ... that he...” I stumble over the words, the images flashing through my mind, vivid and clear. “Seeing you turned on ... so uninhibited ... so taken ... there’s something ... visceral about it, about seeing you lose control like that, about knowing that someone else could make you feel that way. And the way you came ... God, Emma, I’ve never seen you come like that, never heard you scream like that. It was just so...”

I pause, taking a deep breath, forcing myself to articulate the feelings I’ve been trying to bury for weeks.