Another Tuesday night. My wife's watching some reality show in the living room, and I'm pretending to answer work emails in the study. My phone buzzes. It's him. "You up?" The message makes my heart race. I type back, "Yeah. Wife's distracted."
Twenty minutes later, I'm "going out for a walk." That's what I always tell her. That's what he tells his wife. We meet at the park, the one with the dark walking path behind the baseball field. No one goes there this late.
When I see him leaning against that old oak tree, it's like taking my first real breath all day. We don't shake hands. We just stand there for a minute, the silence saying everything our mouths can't.
"I can't do this anymore," I finally say, the words catching in my throat.
He looks down at his shoes. "I know. Me neither."
We both knew this conversation was coming. We've been doing this for two years now—stolen moments, secret glances at work, frantic encounters in cheap motels or the back of his SUV. It started as friendship, two married guys complaining about our lives. Then came the night after the company Christmas party when he kissed me in the parking garage. Everything changed.
"My wife asked me today if I'm happy," he says, his voice cracking. "I lied. I said yes. But the whole time, I was thinking about how I'd rather be with you."
I nod because I get it. Last week my wife was planning our anniversary trip, talking about renewing our vows, and all I could think about was how my vows were a lie. How I've been lying to her for fifteen years. How I've been lying to myself even longer.
"We have to tell them," I say, even though the thought terrifies me. "We can't keep living this double life. It's eating us alive."
He finally looks at me, his eyes glistening in the dim light from the distant streetlamp. "They're going to hate us."
"They're going to be hurt," I correct him. "But we can't keep sacrificing their happiness to protect ours when we're not even happy."
He reaches out and takes my hand, just for a second. A simple touch that means more than any night of passion we've shared. "When?"
"Saturday," I say. "I'll tell her Saturday. You tell your wife."
We stand there a little longer, not talking. Just two married guys who are secretly gay, about to detonate bombs in our own lives. Before we part, he pulls me into a quick, tight hug. It feels like both an ending and a beginning.
As I walk home, I'm not thinking about the pain I'm about to cause. I'm thinking about how maybe, for the first time in my life, I might get to stop hiding.
Twenty minutes later, I'm "going out for a walk." That's what I always tell her. That's what he tells his wife. We meet at the park, the one with the dark walking path behind the baseball field. No one goes there this late.
When I see him leaning against that old oak tree, it's like taking my first real breath all day. We don't shake hands. We just stand there for a minute, the silence saying everything our mouths can't.
"I can't do this anymore," I finally say, the words catching in my throat.
He looks down at his shoes. "I know. Me neither."
We both knew this conversation was coming. We've been doing this for two years now—stolen moments, secret glances at work, frantic encounters in cheap motels or the back of his SUV. It started as friendship, two married guys complaining about our lives. Then came the night after the company Christmas party when he kissed me in the parking garage. Everything changed.
"My wife asked me today if I'm happy," he says, his voice cracking. "I lied. I said yes. But the whole time, I was thinking about how I'd rather be with you."
I nod because I get it. Last week my wife was planning our anniversary trip, talking about renewing our vows, and all I could think about was how my vows were a lie. How I've been lying to her for fifteen years. How I've been lying to myself even longer.
"We have to tell them," I say, even though the thought terrifies me. "We can't keep living this double life. It's eating us alive."
He finally looks at me, his eyes glistening in the dim light from the distant streetlamp. "They're going to hate us."
"They're going to be hurt," I correct him. "But we can't keep sacrificing their happiness to protect ours when we're not even happy."
He reaches out and takes my hand, just for a second. A simple touch that means more than any night of passion we've shared. "When?"
"Saturday," I say. "I'll tell her Saturday. You tell your wife."
We stand there a little longer, not talking. Just two married guys who are secretly gay, about to detonate bombs in our own lives. Before we part, he pulls me into a quick, tight hug. It feels like both an ending and a beginning.
As I walk home, I'm not thinking about the pain I'm about to cause. I'm thinking about how maybe, for the first time in my life, I might get to stop hiding.
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Joi
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