Part Two: I have a boyfriend. I’m married.

I don’t know where to start.

I wish I had written before now, a story in the middle, when things were good. Or when things were at least not this.

As I write this, I’m at 30 thousand feet. Row 29, window. My husband and son are piled in next to me, headed to Vegas. It will be a good week, full of lights and food and walking and heat and plenty of fun things to distract me. But for now, in this moment, I have only fucking tears.

I don’t cry when I’m upset. I don’t. I cry when I watch a college football kicker try to save the game with a last second 48 yard field goal. I cry when I’m mad, the tears just kind of well up and sneak out without my permission. I cry at commercials during the Olympics, when they show me the bond between mothers and the babies they raised to be sports heroes. I don’t cry because my heart is broken.

So why am I crying?

Because I’m furious that I’m crying. At least that has to be it, I think.

What else can it be?

I had a ten week relationship. Ten weeks. Not that I’m counting. What the fuck is ten weeks? A blink. A nothing stretch of days. 70 “good morning” wake up texts. Eight hotel rooms. Lots of “I miss yous”. A movie. A breakfast. A lunch. Lots of Japanese food.

And feelings.

Fucking feelings.

In my first story I introduced my boyfriend. Things were good, things were progressing. Deep…