“Only because I’ve already chosen. This is the kind of thing that needs to be unanimous.”

This time she didn’t even look around the pub. She immediately leaned across the table and placed her lips on mine. It was that kiss, not the drunken one from the previous night, that ranks at the very top of my list.

Lauren wasted no time in calling for the check, then paid it in cash. She led me by the hand out of the bar and across the street to a Best Western hotel. She’d obviously planned ahead, because the room was already booked.

The room was no-frills, but more than adequate for our intended purpose. Clean, with a king bed and a flat-screen TV.

As soon as the door closed, I took matters into my own hands. Literally. Before she could say anything, my lips were on hers, my tongue in her mouth, my hand on her breast.

When we were finally satiated, neither of us said anything. The first quiet of the last hour fell in the room. All I could hear was Lauren’s breathing and my own beating heart, as if they were engaging in a two-part harmony.

Stuart liked to talk after sex. To recap what went on. I always hated when he did. I was there. I knew what happened. I much preferred to be alone with my thoughts. Lauren appeared to be like me in this regard. She wordlessly curled up beside me and placed her head on my shoulder. I lost myself in her sweet scent. Mixed with the rawness of the sex we’d just enjoyed, it was nothing short of heavenly.

31.

31.

Every Tuesday that summer, Lauren and I met at the same Best Western. It became the center of not just my week, but my life. A few hours when I no longer existed as the woman I’d come to despise. I recognized, of course, the circularity of my reasoning. I hated myself precisely for what I was doing with Lauren—for the betrayal of Stuart, and Jacob too. And yet I couldn’t pull myself away. It was as if the only antidote to that feeling was more time with Lauren. I suspect that anyone with an addiction knows the cycle all too well: self-loathing, the desperate need for relief that brings on even greater self-loathing, inextricably leading yourself back to that relief.

In August, Lauren invited Stuart, Jacob, and me to visit Richard and her at their East Hampton home for Labor Day weekend. Summer homes in the Hamptons were virtually unknown to ADAs, save for those, like Lauren, who had spouses with seven-figure incomes.

“Are you kidding?” I replied.

“No. I find the weekends intolerable.”