Unconditional

Chapter One

I never meant to hurt you.

The clichéd words bounced around like a bullet ricocheting in my brain. I stared at my husband. What? What did you say?

I said I never meant—

No. I waved a hand in front his face. Before that.

He glanced away. I said I’m…I’m gay, well bi-sexual, and I think it’s best if we separate. Divorce.

You’re gay. You? A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. That’s a good one, Thomas. You almost had me going.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and pressed his lips into a narrow line. I’m not joking, Meg.

I regarded him for a moment. Thomas, my husband. My lover. My best friend. The man who knows me better than anyone else. The man I thought I knew. That’s ridiculous. What? You noticed how good looking some other guy was and now you think you’re gay? That’s normal.

He shifted from one foot to the other, looking like a teenager who had been caught with contraband beer. It’s more than that. There’s someone…

My chest burned as if I’d swallowed too much Italian ice too fast. I grasped the back of the kitchen chair I stood behind and stiffened my arms to steady myself. "You have a boyfriend? A shrill laugh escaped me. Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?"

Thomas stepped toward me, but I backed away. Don’t come near me. I began to shake. Don’t…don’t do this.

Let’s sit down and talk.

I don’t want to sit down and talk. I don’t want to know any more. I backed up again, literally against a wall.

Meg, I’ve tried, but I can’t deny who I am any longer.

My stomach roiled, and I twisted my body around the door frame. I stumbled through the living room and into the powder room in the front hall where my stomach ejected the dinner I had prepared.

Thomas tapped on the door. Are you okay?

Go away. Tears stung my eyes.

We have to talk about this. I’ll wait until you come out.

I sat on the floor beside the toilet, dropped my head back against the wall, and closed my eyes. ‘I’ll wait until you come out.’ Until I came out?

A few hours earlier, I had rushed in from an afternoon at the mall. New thong underwear and a lace-trimmed cami lay in the Victoria’s Secret bag by the front door. I had decided it was time to revisit the baby discussion. Thomas’s announcement did not fit with my plans for our evening.

I pulled myself to my feet and straddled the fault line that opened beneath me, splitting my life into before and after. Before Thomas spat out his terrible truth. After my life turned inside out. After a shelf of my heart cracked and slid into the abyss.

As I stared at my image, something shifted inside and I snapped. Thomas wasn’t telling me something he had just learned. He was revealing a fact he had known for a long time. Shock gave way to rage. I turned the knob and slammed the door open. The brass knob hit the wall with a loud crack.

I stormed back into the kitchen, blood pounding in my ears. You son-of-a-bitch.

Thomas’s eyes widened and he stood. Let me—

Explain? You have an explanation? I picked up the first thing I could—an empty glass—and hurled it at him. He ducked and the glass crashed into the sink. I shouted above the roaring in my head, Go ahead. Explain this to me. Help me understand how the man I’ve been with for the past six years—married to for four—has had this sudden epiphany and realized he prefers men.

He lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender. Or maybe it was self-defense in anticipation of the cutlery flying his way. Can we please sit down and be civil? He pulled out a chair opposite me and waited.

I obliged, not because I was in the mood to be civil, but because I wasn’t certain my legs would hold me much longer. My body shook as if something inside had shorted out.

Thank you. Thomas picked up the wineglass in front of him and set it out of my reach. I know this is a shock. I struggled all day to find a way to tell you, but there was no easy way to say it. I can’t pretend any longer. It’s not fair to you. He reached for my hand.

I drew back and pressed both hands together in my lap. No, it’s not fair. I studied the solitaire diamond set in a platinum band on my left hand. "I don’t understand. You and I have been together for six years. We make love. You make love to me. I shook my head. This doesn’t make sense."

Thomas dragged fingers through his thick dark hair. I’ve been talking with a therapist. We’ve reached the conclusion that I’m bi-sexual.

You talked with a stranger about this, but not with me?

I needed objectivity. You’re a therapist, you know how that works.

I stared at him—his beard-shadowed square jaw, dark eyes, tawny skin befitting his Latino heritage. Then you’re not actually gay.

Technically, no. But—

But you want to pursue a relationship with a man. My stomach threatened a second revolt and I swallowed. I suddenly felt deflated. If you can choose, why can’t you choose us? The words came from a voice so small, so foreign, I thought someone else had uttered them.

His gaze met mine. I wish I could. I wish it were that simple. But it’s not. I won’t ask you to settle for less than everything. Can you honestly say you wouldn’t always wonder where I am, who I’m with, when I’m not with you? I respect you too much to ask you to live half a life.

I was certain I could feel my heart breaking, literally cracking in half. I pressed a palm over my left breast. How long have you known?

I suppose I always knew. Well, since I was old enough to notice girls…and boys. I thought we would be okay. You were the only woman I’d ever been with, and I thought that with you, I could be straight.

A rush of heat threatened to consume me. I wanted to scream or to roar. "You’re putting this on me? It’s my fault that I didn’t save you from yourself? You knew you had a thing for men and, yet, you married me. Why? Can you please just tell me that much?"

He hesitated before responding. Because I loved you. You’re my best friend, and I still love you.

The words came at me like a slap. Tears stung my eyes. No, Thomas, you don’t. I don’t know what the hell this is, but it sure isn’t love. When you love someone, you don’t lie to them, day after day. You don’t make promises you know you can’t keep. I stood, sending my chair clattering to the floor. I folded my arms across my chest hoping the action would prevent my heart from pounding its way out of my chest. I want you to go upstairs, pack a bag, and get the hell out of here.

Thomas’s face paled, his mouth tightening. He stood and moved toward me. You’re upset. I don’t want to leave you like this. I’ll sleep in the guest room, and we can talk in the morning.

The guest room. The room that I planned to turn into a nursery. No. I stumbled back, raising my palm toward him. You need to leave. Now. I locked myself in the powder room where I splashed cold water on my face.

When I returned to the living room a few minutes later, Thomas sat hunched, with his face in his hands. A packed bag rested at his feet. He looked up. I’ll call you tomorrow.

Don’t bother. I opened the door and waited for him to go. I do have one question.

He turned and looked at me.

Who is he?

Does it matter?

It matters to me.

Thomas stared down at his feet. Francisco.

"Francisco. Your assistant? You’re having an affair with your secretary? Jesus, this isn’t a nightmare, it’s a damned cliché."

I’m not having an affair. I wouldn’t do that to you.

Oh, gee, thanks for being so considerate. My mind conjured an image of Thomas seated at his desk and Francisco leaning over his shoulder, smiling a sickening, seductive smile. Or worse, kneeling under the desk. I shuddered and then I began to laugh. Seriously. Francisco?

I’d known Francisco for about a year, since he began working with Thomas. I’d welcomed him when Thomas brought him to the house for a barbecue or work on a Saturday. I couldn’t say I liked him, but I hadn’t disliked him. He didn’t charm me, but I didn’t have to work with him.

The duffle bag slipped off Thomas’s shoulder and he grabbed for it.

I have to say, I’m a little insulted. I would have at least expected to be replaced by someone with a little class and better looks.

Thomas shook his head. I don’t compare you.

Well, thank God for that. I’d definitely come up short, since I’m missing a few vital parts.

Meg, this isn’t about sex.

I clamped a hand on my hip to keep from slapping him. Oh, and that’s supposed to make me feel better? It isn’t just sex, it’s so much more? Before I close the door, do you want to list any more of my flaws?

He stared at me. This isn’t about you.

"The hell it isn’t. You’ve just decimated my life, my future. Not to mention what you’ve done to my self-esteem. To my heart. This is very much about me, you self-centered bastard." My breath came in ragged gasps. I glanced past Thomas to a man walking a dog across the street, and then slammed the door shut.

In the kitchen, I perused the table—a cold slab of prime rib lay on my plate in congealed juice beside a half-eaten baked potato and shriveled green beans. Thomas’s plate was empty. Apparently, anticipating the conversation hadn’t stifled his appetite.

The untouched cheesecake I’d picked up for dessert sat on the counter. The shattered wine glass lay in the sink. Probably the way my heart looked about now. I reached for the bottle of wine, but my stomach rebelled. Instead, I put on the kettle for tea. Once I settled on the sofa and placed the steaming cup of chamomile on the side table, rage gave way to the hurt. Tears trailed hot tracks down my cheeks.

My mind reeled with the realization that my marriage was over. The betrayal by my husband was bad enough. The knowledge that I had also lost my best friend doubled me over with grief. I pulled a blanket from the back of the sofa and draped it around my shoulders. Thomas’s spicy scent clung to the fabric, and I tossed the cover aside. Shit.

How could I stay in our house? Thomas and I had celebrated our first night there three years ago, drinking champagne, toasting the future, and making love. The house symbolized the solidity of our relationship, our happy ever after. I had a sudden flashback to me and Audrey as children, sitting at my grandfather’s kitchen table and building houses from a deck of cards—houses that would collapse in a breath.

One breath. That was all it took.

Thomas breathed out his secret and my life imploded.

Chapter Two

In the following weeks, I turned to the one person who had loved me without question or condition. My grandfather. The only problem—he was dead. But the connection I felt to him bridged that chasm. Grandad loved life. He loved his family. He loved kids. He especially loved me—without condition.

I should have learned something from him during the years we had together. I should have taken notes. If I had, perhaps I would have made a better choice in men. They say women often marry their fathers. That wasn’t true for me. If I’d chosen a man like my father, or like Grandad, I wouldn’t be standing here today, in a cemetery, in the rain, in total despair.

I set the floral bouquet into the vase in front of the granite headstone. I miss you. I told him, with alternating anger and hurt, about Thomas. I wish you were here to tell me what to do. By the time I finished, the rain had eased. I swept damp tendrils from my face and shook beads of water from my slicker before I got into the car.

The damned car.

The BMW had been a birthday gift the previous year from Thomas. I thought he was being generous when, in fact, he was feeling guilty. I gunned the engine, willing the vehicle to explode, but it didn’t. The silver Beamer purred like a kitten.

As I waited to exit the cemetery, a black hearse crawled by, leading a procession of one limousine and four older model cars along aptly named Cemetery Road. The vehicles turned into the cemetery on the opposite side of the road. I followed. What the hell, I needed a good cry. Who knew divorce could turn a woman into a funeral-crashing casket chaser?

I parked behind the last car, a weather-worn blue Chevy. One of the undertakers opened my door. Miss?

Thank you. I tucked my purse under the seat and got out of the car, painfully self-conscious of my bright yellow rain slicker happily decorated with white daisies and smiling suns. But the other mourners didn’t seem to notice when I approached and stood at the back of the small gathering. I scanned the names on surrounding markers: Stein, Goldberg, Birnbaum, Waxman.

There I stood, a German-Irish Catholic, in the Jewish cemetery, observing a stranger’s burial. What am I doing here? The rabbi began the service. It would have been rude of me to turn and leave.

A frail, elderly woman sat draped in black on a folding chair in front of the casket. I thought of Thomas, of our all too brief marriage. Sorrow threatened to suffocate me.

The service ended and mourners returned to their cars. A woman touched my sleeve. How do you know the Weschlers?

Uh…I…uh… I stammered. Weschler? Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m at the wrong funeral. I really have to run. I just hope they haven’t buried Aunt Eleanor yet. And so does Aunt Eleanor, since she’s very much alive and cruising the Caribbean right now.

I made a hasty exit and, at the intersection, pulled into a Burger King drive-through line.

Have you lost your mind, crashing a funeral?

The answer came too quickly: Yes, but now I feel better. I may be onto something here—a whole new method of grief therapy.

My cell phone buzzed in my pocket, and I removed it to glance at the screen. Hi, Nikki. Is everything okay?

Okay? my office assistant asked. Your eleven o’clock is here, waiting not so patiently. And you’ve had four calls this morning from Mrs. Clymer. She won’t stop calling and refuses to leave a message.

Crap. I thought my morning was clear. I’ll be right there.

I am a failure. I failed as a wife. In the four years I’d been married, I failed to become a mother. I just failed as a funeral crasher. And now I’m failing as a therapist.

I hurried through the door marked Ritter Counseling Associates, grateful I’d kept my practice under my maiden name. As I settled my purse in the bottom desk drawer, the muffled strains of Ode to Joy sounded.

Thomas. I turned off the phone and tossed it back into my purse, resolving to change the ringtone later. I was torn between Before He Cheats and the old Eagles song, Lyin’ Eyes. I didn’t think anyone had recorded a song about castration.

Chapter Three

By the end of the day, I wished Mrs. Clymer’s manic states were contagious. I could have used some of that energy. I sat in the one comfortable chair in my office, the one reserved for clients, and propped my feet on the low round coffee table. I opened the newspaper and turned to the obituaries page.

Donald Stevens was being buried the next afternoon at two o’clock, with internment in Holy Angels cemetery. I got up and glanced at the schedule book on my desk: Shoot, I have the Bickering Bartons at two. How the hell am I supposed to counsel a couple now? I’d rather go to a funeral.

An icy shiver rolled down my spine. What was this new fascination with death? I needed consolation, I concluded, and mourners consoled one another, even if they were strangers. Thomas knew how to console, to make me believe things would be all better.Until he started consoling Francisco.

I returned to the obituaries. Am I really considering crashing another funeral? What is wrong with me? I was intrigued by my reaction of that morning. I had no connection to the deceased or the mourners. I cried out my own grief, and I felt better in the end. Was that really such a bad thing? I didn’t hurt anyone. If anything, I helped the family by letting them think someone else cared about their beloved husband, father, brother…

Nikki knocked on the doorframe, and I startled. Huh?

What has you so spaced out? She rested her hip against my desk. You don’t have any evening appointments. Want to get a bite to eat and tell me how your meeting went with Thomas the Transvestite?

He’s not a transvestite. He’s…gay. I gagged on the word. Not because I have anything against anyone who’s gay. Only against my husband, who now thinks he’s gay. I don’t have much of an appetite, and I need to catch up on paperwork. Then I’m going home.

Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow. Get some sleep. You start the morning with Borderline Barbie. I’ll lock the front door as I leave.

Her footsteps faded and the lock clicked behind her. I thought about my soon-to-be-ex-husband and our meeting earlier that morning with our respective divorce attorneys.

It was hard enough to be displaced from one’s rightful place in a marriage. But for a woman to be shoved aside for a man? That hurt more than anything. I had met Francisco, many times. I’d welcomed him into my home, served him dinner, offered him drinks. What I hadn’t served him was my husband. He took that all on his own.

Once I had recovered from the initial shock of Thomas’s announcement, I had suggested he and I get counseling together. When he agreed because he thought it would help me come to terms with his new lifestyle, conjoint counseling didn’t seem like such a great idea any longer. I wanted someone to take my side, to show Thomas what he stood to lose, how wrong he was. Though I knew no therapist worth his or her salt would take that position.

I finished my notes, put away the files, and sat again at my desk. I needed to go home. I didn’t want to go home. Wasn’t sure where home was. Unable to remain in the house Thomas and I had shared, I’d moved in temporarily with my sister, Audrey. Other than Nikki, only Audrey knew about the disaster I’d called a marriage.

Three years my senior, Audrey was an authority on just about everything. She was always brighter, faster, and more socially appropriate. My high school friends and I had called her ‘Oddity’ instead of Audrey. And, oddly enough, she enjoyed having a nickname—even that one. I think it made her feel included. Audrey remained single, by choice, she claimed. She’s attractive, if you peel away the layers under which she disguised herself. Audrey is an accountant. No surprise there. She had the dark-rimmed glasses and pocket calculator to prove it. Audrey saw everything in black and white. If it walks like an eight and looks like an eight, then it’s an eight. To Audrey, Thomas was simply an eight. I wouldn’t have rated him that high.

Audrey opened her arms and spare room to me when I knocked on her door at eleven-fifteen p.m. on a rainy Friday night to tearfully declare my marriage over. She did all the right things. She held me while I cried, brewed me a cup of herbal tea, and then sat and listened to my account of the story several times—all without yawning. Repeatedly reassuring that it was not my fault and reminding me I’m a beautiful woman. What can I say, she’s my sister. She made up her guest room, but then offered to let me sleep with her, if I needed to. Just like when we were kids.

Audrey was a wonderful big sister. And I wondered why it’s always been so hard for me to tell her so. Maybe it’s because of her one flaw: She has virtually no emotion. And, these days, I am an emotional monsoon. I cry. Audrey hands me a tissue and pats my arm. It’s the thing to do. Then she asks what I want for dinner. She’s like our mother in that way—fill the void with food.

I glanced at my watch. Time to go home…to Audrey. I sighed and reached for my rain slicker. It was too cheerful, and I couldn’t put it on. I draped it over my arm, picked up my briefcase, and turned off lights as I made my way to the front door. Only my stupid BMW and one other vehicle, an SUV with shaded windows, occupied the parking lot. A misty shroud hovered over the asphalt, reminding me of those foggy murder scenes in scary movies. I set my finger on the emergency button on my automatic lock fob as I headed toward my car.

A door opened and closed, and a voice called, Megan. Wait up.

I whirled around at Thomas’s approach. Are you trying to give me a heart attack? It was a rhetorical question, however. He’d already attacked my heart.

I wanted to make sure you’re okay, he said with sincerity in his voice and, I saw as he came nearer, in his eyes.

"I’m just peachy. What the hell is wrong with you? Am I okay? I shouted. You’re unbelievable. You traipse out here in the fog, in the dark, with your damn gay lover driving, to ask me if I’m okay?"

He stood with his head bowed, hands shoved into his pockets. The soft rain continued to fall, beading on his jet black hair. I instinctively lifted a hand to brush off the moisture, but then recoiled.

I’m sorry. But you’re not answering my calls, he murmured.

I took a breath. And that would be because I don’t want to talk to you. We have nothing more to discuss. I paused. I do have one question, though. I looked past him to the darkened SUV. What does he do for you that I didn’t?

Thomas closed his eyes for a moment, then looked directly into mine. It’s not you. It’s me.

Oh, please. Don’t even go there. Thomas, it’s over. As soon as the paperwork is filed and signed by a judge, you’re free to be with… My gaze wandered again to the SUV hulking like a dragon in wait of its prey. …with him.

I was hoping we could remain friends. You know me better than anyone.

I laughed, but it came out as more of a bark. No, I don’t think I do. Please. Francisco has seen a side of you that I had no idea even existed. I’m sure the two of you had a few laughs about that. Poor Megan, clueless that her husband prefers men. All those times I smiled and welcomed Francisco into our home. It must have been a helluva joke between the two of you. I had never felt so totally alone, disconsolate.

Even in the shadows, I could see color deepen in his face. Then it hit me. The one thing I could count on from Thomas was no longer available to me. Consolation. He wasn’t consoling me. He was seeking forgiveness.

I swayed, and he enveloped me in his arms, echoing the words he had used the night he shattered my heart. I never wanted to hurt you.

My cheek fell to rest on his chest, a familiar place. You know what hurts the most? That you kept this secret. You kept it from me. I lifted my face to his. You know all of my secrets.

He took a step back and stared at his shoes. I was ashamed. Unshed tears glimmered in the light that cut a swath across his dark features.

I gazed into his liquid brown eyes where I could once easily lose myself. But I was not lost. I was simply a stranger there. Shrugging out of his embrace, I hoisted up the shoulder strap of my briefcase. I have to go. With a shaking hand, I opened the car door and took one last look back. I’m trading in my car this weekend.

Something wrong with it?

Yes. It reminds me of you.

Chapter Four

Meg? Is that you? Audrey called from the kitchen. Dinner’s almost ready.

The aroma of garlic assaulted my nose when I entered the apartment. Audrey refused to accept the fact that my husband’s betrayal had left me without an appetite. Everyone must eat dinner. That was just a fact, and Audrey thrived on facts.

No, it’s a serial rapist.

Not funny. Her voice had an odd edge to it, but I dismissed it as Audrey being Audrey. I wondered when my sister had had her sense of humor surgically removed.

She then asked with a lighter tone, How does chicken parmigiana sound to you?

Like forcing a bowl of nightcrawlers down my throat. Great. Thanks. I dropped my bag and slicker and checked the stack of forwarded mail on the coffee table. Aud, you don’t have to cook for me every night. I don’t have much of an appetite lately.

She appeared and handed me a glass of dark red wine. I like having someone to cook for. It gets old, cooking for one. She retreated back to the kitchen.

I would know what she meant soon enough. I couldn’t stay at her place forever. My insides quaked. I took a sip of wine and choked.

You okay? She stuck her head around the corner.

I nodded, gasping. I’m fine.

Over dinner, Audrey asked about my day. I decided not to tell her about talking with Thomas. I had a busy day. You know, the same old stuff. People with issues. I cut a piece of chicken into five tiny pieces, unable to put a single bite into my mouth. I couldn’t imagine swallowing.

She shook her head. I don’t know how you do it. I’d probably just tell them ‘The past is the past. That’s life. Sometimes it sucks. Get on with it.’

I smiled. Ah, the Dr. Phil technique.

She cocked her head and furrowed her eyebrows. The reference had gone over her head. I chose not to explain. I’m trading in my car this weekend. Want to come and help me pick out something new?

What’s wrong with your car?

It was a gift from Thomas. My voice hitched at his name.

Yeah, but it’s practically new. And it’s a beautiful car.

I gritted my teeth. Audrey, it was a present from my cheating, gay, soon-to-be-ex-husband.

Oh, she said. I guess it reminds you of too much.

Ya’ think? I reined in my growing rage. I wasn’t angry with Audrey. She exasperated me at times, but still, my life turned inside out wasn’t her fault. "Sorry. I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at…him…at them. I’m just mad."

She patted my hand. You’re better off without him. Now you can find the right man and have the life you’ve dreamed about. The past is the past. That’s life. Sometimes it sucks. Get on with it.

I opened my mouth to respond, but closed it again. It really was that simple to Audrey. Just as I did when we were teenagers, I decided to push her around a little to distract myself. How come you don’t date?

Her eyebrows lifted practically to her hairline. Me? she