As we settled into the booth, I felt unusually calm, given the circumstances. I drove here prepping for a fight. I had imagined myself beet-faced, screaming, crying. Nope. Instead I adopted a calm, centered veneer. We could talk this through, figure it out, because I had laid my rage to rest. I just wanted answers so that I knew how to move forward. No matter what, I’d be okay. I was a survivor . . . hell, I was a thriver. I conquered my past, raised four great kids, helped build Grant’s medical practice . . . if I could do all that, I could do anything with or without a man.

I lifted my glass up in a mock salute. “Why’d you order my drink for your ho?”

“I don’t know. Habit, I guess.” He waited for me to speak, but when I didn’t, he said, “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say here, Robin.”

“The truth would be a good starting point.” I gulped half the drink because I had a feeling I’d need it to endure this.

“You want the truth? Okay, here it is. I’m miserable. You haven’t touched me in months. You realize it’s been several months since we last had sex—before Collette was born. I have needs, and sometimes my hand just isn’t enough. I need physical contact. With another human. So am I sorry about hurting you? Yes. But I’m not sorry for wanting more from you.”

More from me, huh? As if I wasn’t giving every part of me away already.

“Why didn’t you talk to me? I had no idea you felt this way. But going outside our marriage, Grant—that’s unforgivable.”

“Is it as unforgivable as hiding almost fifty grand in debt from your husband?” He stared at me, his gaze hard and calculating.

“How long have you known?”

“Long enough. You’ve been lying to me, Robin. Just like I lied to you. That’s when this all started. The first time I saw the credit card statement about a month ago. When our mortgage payment got declined, I began looking into our checking and savings accounts. Empty, Robin. You spent every damn cent we had. And on what? Stuff we don’t need. So naturally I checked the credit card. Maxed out at over forty thousand dollars. I was so angry I didn’t know what to do, so I talked to a female friend about my stress. I didn’t bring up the debt, just bullshitted about how I was feeling inside—inadequate, unattractive, feminine shit like that. Then it led to flirting . . . and . . .”

I waved the rest of his excuses away. “I’ve got it, I’ve got it. You don’t need to go into detail.”