So where's the truth? The second hand's back to the one, the two... and yet I just let him yammer on as if his life's not about to change any second now. Why even wait for the twelve to come around again? He must be able to see the sheen of sweat on my forehead. I know it's sitting there, making me light up like a neon sign in the ugly track lighting that this restaurant insists on using to light every single corner. Didn't dining establishments used to have moody lighting, shadows and all that? Now they're just trying to light up every plate on every table, because the chef is the star now, every one of them is jockeying to be the Next Food Network Star. Each dish that goes out is some sort of audition, and they'll be damned if you don't notice that they're artists.
God, he's still talking. I think he's moved on to the elaborate set of criteria he used when choosing what kind of wood he bought for this deck that he's probably not going to bother building when I finally open my damn mouth and say what I came here to say. No reason to build a deck on a house you don't even live in anymore, right? And even if he keeps the house, I know he's building this with some idyllic suburban fantasy in his head, some four-color dream of backyard barbecues with the family, friends and relatives basking in the sun... I'm about to drive a stake through the heart of all that. Doesn't he deserve that, though? Shouldn't he know that there's this whole other world going on right under his nose?
I've known him for a dozen years, and I've never really been further from behind his friend than I am right now. Because I know what his wife has been doing. I honestly wish I didn't, but I do. And frankly, I don't know how he doesn't know. It's not like it's been subtle, or unclear. Maybe that will make it easier. Maybe he does know, and just doesn't care. I can't imagine that he's so clueless that he hasn't noticed the signs. The way she lights up when the other man comes in the room, regardless of whether her husband is there or not, the way she's been riding around town with her convertible top down, her hair whipping around wildly, even on that day last week when it was almost cold enough to snow. She's riding high on new love, and he's got his head buried so far in his deck blueprints that he can't see it.
There goes another twelve. I'm still not saying anything. Maybe he really is that clueless. After all, he hasn't noticed that I haven't said anything, and have let him rattle on for the last ten minutes. I haven't even taken a bite of this bacon cheeseburger that I don't have the stomach for, and he's plowed through almost all of that salad while expounding the virtues of various wood sealants. She's waiting for me to call when it's done.
I'm assuming that I'll be in some kind of condition to speak after I've told him. Would he beat me down, right here in this immaculately well-lit restaurant? I'm betting not. He's not that kind of a guy. He'll probably even finish his meal before getting up, driving back to the office, and never speaking to me on a non-professional level again. He'll leave me with the check, which will be as aggressive as he'll get. That's why I brought him here to eat in the first place, isn't it? For that extra layer of insurance against my face being permanently rearranged. But even if I hadn't, he wouldn't do that to me.
He doesn't deserve this. He deserves to be happy, to live in a world where decks can be planned, bought, and assembled to completion without the nagging worry in the back of his mind that his wife is being unfaithful. But what was it that my dad said, right before he left for good? "The heart wants what it wants." Yeah, and most of the time the heart is a selfish asshole. That's what the brain is for, to give the heart a good throttling every time it gets out of line. How is what I'm doing to him any different than what my dad did to me?
Because I'm not ceding responsibility like he did, that's why. All that crap about what the heart wants is just passing the buck, pointing at some internal organ and saying, "I had nothing to do with this, really. It's all his fault." Then you can move in with your girlfriend and her kid (who was actually older than I was!) and start over. Reset button.
So am I really going to do this? We've fallen into some sort of uncomfortable silence. I think he's realized that I'm not eating, talking or listening. And I haven't been. So now would be the perfect time. Look, if it wasn't me, his wife would be cheating on him with some other idiot, someone who he didn't even know. She was looking for a way out, and I couldn't help the fact that I'd always wanted her from afar. It was just a mutually advantageous situation. It could be worse... she could have broken my heart too, by picking some random other guy. And I think she and I really have a shot, to have the happiness that she was never going to find with him. That's what I should tell him, that it's actually better for me to be the one to do this to him than some unknown quantity that he can never understand.
The twelve came and went, and I actually started talking right after the five. I wasn't even aware that I had started until the words were coming out of my mouth. I did it right; I didn't sugar-coat it, didn't appeal to his higher nature to "chin up, old boy" and all that. And it wasn't as bad as I thought. Clearly he'd been thinking that something was up for a while now, and this just solidified something that had been wobbling uneasily in his mind. That it was me was the only thing that he seemed truly surprised about.
What I didn't count on was how good I felt once I started telling him. As I started telling him how it all started, it really felt like I was weaving the beginning of a great love story, not just hacking through the ending of one. What she and I have is something greater, something that he could never be a part of, and if he really loves her, he'll come to see that holding her back from that love would only end up hurting himself in the end.
Speaking of hurting, once the adrenaline burns off I'm going to need to be in the close company of several doctors. But now, lying curled up on the floor of this restaurant while blood from my nose soaks into my hair and I can feel my ribs loose and shifting inside my shirt, I actually feel happy.
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