The aftermath

The silence of the bedroom felt heavy, almost medicinal. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, tracing the phantom outlines of a night that had been technically perfect but emotionally hollow. Jerry and Twix were good men—decent, attentive, and generous in their affection—but as the morning light filtered through the blinds, the pleasure they’d provided felt like a debt I hadn't realized I’d be paying with the currency of our friendship.

I eventually forced myself upright. My phone was a black mirror on the nightstand, dead to the world. I plugged it in, the small vibration of the charging cable feeling like a jolt to my own system.

Stripping the bed was a ritual of erasure. I bundled the linens, the scent of the evening clinging to the fabric. It wasn't that the sheets were ruined; it was that they were haunted. I knew I’d have to run the cycle twice—not for the stains, but to rinse away the lingering musk of a choice I was already mourning.

While the machine hummed in the basement, I retreated to the shower. I intended for it to be quick, a functional scrub, but I found myself standing under the spray for a long time, letting the heat numb the slight, dull ache in my muscles. I dressed in heavy loungewear, seeking the comfort of soft layers, and picked at a peanut butter sandwich in the kitchen.

Back in the basement, I pulled a damp sheet from the washer and pressed it to my nose. It wasn't gone yet. That primal, sweet-salt scent still clung to the fibers.

"Not enough," I muttered to the empty room. "Still there." I measured out another heavy pour of detergent, the blue liquid swirling into the drum. "Another round. Make it disappear."

By the time I returned to the bedroom, my phone had revived. A message from Vic was waiting.

How are you holding up? What are you doing?

I typed back with a steady hand: Tired. A little sore. Just doing laundry and some light cleaning before I disappear into a nap.

I watched the three dots of the ellipsis dance on the screen. They appeared, hesitated, and vanished. Then they returned, pulsing with his unspoken thoughts. Finally, the question landed.

Do you regret last night?

Yes, I sent.

Before he could offer a platitude, I followed up: Threesomes were a college curiosity, Vic. At forty, the novelty is gone. I don’t judge the lifestyle, but I’ve realized I can’t maintain an emotional connection when the bed is that crowded. Jerry and Twix... we all felt it this morning. The shift. If we saw them next week, it would be a performance of 'normal' that none of us are ready for. Especially with their wives in the room, regardless of what they agreed to.

My phone didn't chime with a text; it roared with a ringtone. Vic was calling.

"I’m sorry," he said the moment I answered, his voice low and roughened by guilt. "I shouldn't have suggested you invite them both. I had an idea of how things might go, but I wasn't... I wasn't one hundred percent sure it would hit you this hard."

"I appreciate the apology, Vic. Truly. But suggestions only work if the other person says yes. I’m the one who opened the door."

"You sound distant," he noted. "Even for you."

"I'm just realistic. Everything looks different in the daylight. Our relationship changed last night, and I don't just mean with Jerry and Twix."

"Do you want me to come over tonight?" he asked, his tone shifting to something more urgent. "We can talk. Properly."

"No. Stay with your wife," I said, my voice flat. "Spend another night at home, Vic. You need to be there."

"I'd rather be spending the night with you," he countered, his voice dropping an octave. "You know that."

"And I would prefer to be alone," I said, cutting through the sentiment. "I have some significant thinking to do. The kind you can't do when someone else is in the room."

There was a pause on the line, the kind that feels like a physical weight. "Is this about us?"

"Everything is about us, Vic. The twelve-year carousel we’ve been on, the 'on' and 'off,' the layers... it's all part of the same mess."

"I understand," he said, though the hollow ring in his voice told me he was just saying what he thought I needed to hear.

"I don't think you do," I whispered. "But that's okay. Good night, Vic."

"Good night," he replied, sounding defeated.

I hung up and the silence returned, sharper than before. I needed to talk, but my list of confidants was dangerously short. Kay was off-limits; the wound from her hiding Randy’s reconciliation with his ex was still too fresh for me to trust her with my vulnerabilities.

I thought about my employee, Tara. She was a brilliant junior partner, but our relationship ended at the office door. "I can't dump this on her," I sighed, setting the phone down. "We don't have that kind of friendship. It’s strictly business, and it needs to stay that way."

I thought about calling my brother. "Bob would lose his mind," I muttered, imagining the conversation. 'You've been doing what with Vic for twelve years? And now this?' He’d be pissed—his right, of course—and he’d try to understand, but his protective streak would just turn into a lecture I wasn't prepared to hear.

I went through the names—Matteo, Mike, Vince—all ghosts or complications. There’s no way that I could talk to Tara about this no matter how close we are. I appreciate Tara and her hard work for my company and her commitment to work for her rather eccentric boss but we only have a business relationship.

That left only one person. Someone who understood the peculiar weight of a husband’s shadow and the complexity of clandestine needs. Neither of our governments would appreciate us turning our business relationship into something personal, but she was the only one who had survived a similar storm with her own husband.

I dialed her emergency number, my heart thudding.

She picked up on the third ring. "It is late for you," she said, her voice accented and calm. "Or perhaps very early."

"It’s both," I said, leaning my head against the cool glass of the window. "I’ve made a mess of things, and you’re the only person I know who won't look at me like a casualty."

"Then tell me," Serafina said. "From the beginning."