The Hardest Thing

LYRIC

It’s been a week, and I’ve talked to him every single day. The first thing I do is check the app I downloaded exclusively for him to see if I have a message. It’s been such a short time, and I’m too excited about it, about him.

He calls me baby girl. The time difference makes it harder to talk to him, but the first thing I have in the morning when I wake up is a message from him, and it’s the best start to my day.

It’s that new, exciting, meeting-someone-for-the-first-time butterfly feeling. Despite the distance.

Other things I’ve learned about him since we started talking? His name is Parker. He’s a Bengals fan, which isn’t a deal breaker, but when his team plays the Bills, I’m going to have to tease him when they lose. My mom grew up in Buffalo, and I’ve been a Bills fan since the day I was born.

How ridiculous is it to be thinking about what a deal breaker is when he’s literally almost four thousand miles away, a literal ocean separating us...oh, and we’re both married. Neither of us is looking to get out of our marriages.

We’re both happy—mostly—just something feels lacking for both of us. His youngest is five and still sleeps in their bed. My husband and I still have sex, consistently too, but it’s become monotonous, lacking excitement.

It’s a season, and I know that. But I’m still making choices that could destroy everything. Because my marriage—my husband—is everything, even if I’m treating it like it’s nothing.

Even thinking about it, I feel horrible, the pit in my stomach growing, knowing that I’m getting closer and closer to emotional affair territory. I’m allowed to have friends. That’s the argument I keep making with myself, and it’s true. Valid.

But when I get more excited having a message from him than I do from my husband, then it’s not innocent anymore—not just friendship. I confide in him. I’ve told him the times my husband and I have had sex in the last week.

He says it’s been more than a month for him and his wife. Having a five-year-old sleeping in between you and your spouse can’t make intimacy easy.

I’m not making excuses. I think we both know what we’re doing is going to end disastrously, but he says he gets excited to talk to me too. Most mornings he texts me before he even gets out of bed.

We exchanged pictures too. Completely innocent, just of our faces.

I’m also not completely naive. I’m fully aware he could be lying to me, that the person I’m talking to might not be the six-foot, five-inch, blue-eyed, extremely sweet guy he’s presenting himself to be.

It’s a risk when you meet anyone online. He’s cute and sweet, and the daddy vibes come off him in waves, even through the messages. When I sent him the first picture of myself, just from the neck up, his response was “Fuck, baby girl. You’re gorgeous.”

My cheeks heated instantly. It’s not that my husband doesn’t compliment me. He does. It just never feels natural, like he doesn’t really see me. Not when I put in extra effort to look nicer for him, the days I don’t let my anxiety and depression win, and I actually do my hair, put on my lipstick. I have to ask if I look okay for him to mention it.

I gave him my Instagram too. The professional one I use to manage social media accounts and recruit clients anyway. I have a personal one, too, wanting to keep business and personal separate, but he followed me.

His last name is in his bio too. I haven’t googled him yet, but the temptation is there. If I do, and it doesn’t match the pictures he’s sent me back, he’s a liar.

His profile is private, and I only follow clients, potential clients, and fellow social media managers. I don’t want to alert anyone.

I’m gonna google him.

I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop myself. I type Parker Sullivan into the search bar, but I don’t hit Enter. Hovering over the key, I weigh my options.

The more I find out about him, the more pieces of himself he reveals with each secret, I fall harder and faster. Too hard. Too fast.

It’s all inexplicable, especially when I’m not even sure who he actually is. He could be feeding me lines, total bullshit, even though I’ve been nothing but honest. Too honest.

I’m alone in the house, but I still find myself looking over my shoulder, feeling the guilt flow through my veins. But mixed with that are butterflies—that feeling of something new and exciting I haven’t felt in more than a decade.

I shouldn’t need to feel it, not when I have an amazing husband and a strong marriage, but it’s too hard to stop, so I hit Enter.

The first thing that pops up is a picture from one of those job recruitment sites. My hands shake nervously as I click on it. It enlarges on my screen, and it’s definitely the same guy. The eyes are the same—gunmetal blue—and a playful smile that’s more like a knowing smirk.

God, he’s cute. Sexy too. And I can’t figure out how those two things go together as well as they do, but for him, it works.

I still don’t know if the person I’m talking to is this person though. I can’t know that, not unless we video call. The thought comes out of nowhere and has butterflies filling my stomach.

After the first night we messaged, when he said “So baby girl needs a daddy,” I had to go to bed. It was already late. I pushed him from my mind, figuring it was probably a one-time thing—that he’d forget me, and I’d forget him.

That wasn’t the case. I had a message from him when I woke up. My stomach fluttered when I read it. How stupid is that? Just from a simple “good morning.”

It’s ridiculous. I’m acting like that girl in high school who “fell in love” with the guy she met on Facebook. Spoiler: he ended up being like fifty-five and had been catfishing her the entire time.

I’m smarter than this. I’m not a naive fifteen-year-old. I’m thirty, a whole grown woman. A lost, broken woman, sure, but still an adult(ish). But I can’t stop it. I like the feeling too much to put the brakes on it.

It’s so shitty—makes me feel horrible—but there’s no denying how after just a week of talking, I feel more like myself, more alive.

The wrongness of it is part of the draw, I’m sure. Isn’t that how all people get caught up in affairs, both emotional and physical?

I’m down the rabbit hole that is googling him when my phone beeps, nearly making me jump out of my skin. It sounds like a text message, but I’m sure it’s him. I know it’s not my husband because he has his own special ringtone.

What am I doing?

That’s the only thought that’s been racing through my head. Every time I look at my husband…when he smiles at me, slaps my ass when he walks by, kisses my head, or says something sweet, that’s all I can think about. I’m risking everything.

Yet, I glance down at my phone, the now familiar fluttering in my stomach increasing when I open the messaging app.

My heart hammers. We shouldn’t be talking to each other, and we shouldn’t be talking to each other negatively about our spouses, but that’s not the message I type.

I try to focus on the work in front of me, scheduling social media content for one of my best clients, but I keep glancing down at the phone, anticipation for the next message filling me.

My phone beeps, and my hand itches to answer it, but I finish the task at hand, taking a deep breath and reminding myself that this isn’t something I can allow myself to get too excited about.

Once I finish the preliminary posts, I send them to my client for approval and then I grab my phone.

Every married person knows what it’s like to have a stupid marital spat. Sure, some fights are valid—someone does something offensive or rude—but most of the time it’s simply two people who don’t have enough time, space, or energy, and are living with another human in their space when all they really want is to be alone. We get tired, cranky, and irritable, and the person it’s the easiest to take it out on is the person sleeping next to us.

There’s no further explanation. I don’t want to ask for details. If he wants to divulge, he can, but I don’t want to be pushy. I’m trying to keep myself from diving in headfirst. I’m already being stupid and reckless; I don’t need to make it worse.

My email beeps, and it’s a response from my client, approving the images, so I plan further.

And then, my phone is ringing.

My heart races, nearly stuttering over itself as Parker’s name flashes across the screen—a voice call through the messaging app we use.