Page 4 of Infidelity Rules

I wake up with Marcus on the brain. What is it about that man? I barely know him, yet I want to rip his clothes off. But I also want to make him laugh. And feed him. But that’s a dangerous place to be. I cannot get involved with a single man. I just can’t.

Can I?

I need to go for a long run and clear my head. Dezi’s words from our recent dinner are flashing in my head like a damn marquee. Should I think about dating available men?

I quickly pull on a pair of running tights and a T-shirt and stuff my feet into my crazy-colored running shoes.

I ditch the earbuds since I don’t need any distractions this morning.

I need to pay attention to my own thoughts, not drown them out.

I gather my hair into a messy ponytail and am out the door before I can change my mind and decide to go for brunch and bloody marys instead.

As I wind my way through the city and towards the Washington Mall, my thoughts keep turning to inane things such as what I want for lunch or whether I should try Latisse to lengthen my eyelashes.

I’m clearly avoiding the topic at hand. I need to decide whether to dip my toe in the dating pool again. With Marcus. For real. Or with anyone for that matter.

It’s hard to imagine dating single men again.

I’ve been dating married men exclusively for the past few years and I’m now comfortable and well versed in the whole dance.

It seems more complicated than sticking with bachelors, but ultimately, it’s much simpler.

And, truth be told, it rarely leads to anything more than a few months of shameless flirting and great sex.

What’s not to love? It’s all the fun without all the heartache. If you play the game right, anyway.

But Marcus . He has lust-addled my brain. And he’s making me think twice.

So, I keep running, enjoying the sunshine and cool breeze — ideal running weather.

Running is how I tend to solve problems. But it’s also how I often avoid them.

I ran, day after day, until my knees ached and my shoes were bloodied after Liam cracked open my heart.

I thought, stupidly, that I could outrun the pain, the empty want in my chest.

And then I did the same while married to Chris. I took crazy-long runs. It was the only time I felt I could breathe freely.

My pace quickens as I remember acutely, physically, what a terrible time that was.

I married Chris because he was my best friend and he adored me.

At the time, I thought that was enough. So I put on the veil and said I do.

What an idiot. I felt doom right after the honeymoon.

I would look down at the dazzling diamond wedding ring on my finger and feel like a fraud.

The light-throwing, shimmering bauble in no way reflected the dull emptiness in my heart.

I cross the street and continue toward the green expanse of park space at the Mall, passing the Halal cart guys setting up lunch stalls for the day.

I can’t remember the last time I indulged in shawarma, laced with tahini and stuffed into thick, pillowy pita.

That guy on the corner of Constitution and Pennsylvania makes the best version I’ve ever had.

Keep running. It’s too early for lunch. They’re not even open yet.

I decide to avoid the route that will take me near my favorite cart. I don’t need thoughts of spicy meat and my dating dilemma battling for headspace.

I think back to Chris and how I should have left him right after the honeymoon.

But I thought I could fake it. I truly thought I could swallow my despair, tough it out and eventually be the woman he needed.

I wanted to give Chris the happy ending I didn’t get with Liam.

So I tried to be the wife he needed, but our marriage felt loose and flimsy, like a tattered pair of too big shoes.

It simply didn’t fit. Just like, I suppose, I had never really fit with Liam.

Liam. My head and heart ricochet from Chris, my friend, to Liam, the man I poured myself into.

I’ve never gotten over the shame of getting dumped just hours before my wedding.

Or the pain of loving someone so completely, who never really loved me.

My stomach flips as I remember how I foolishly ached for him.

For months afterward, my heart betrayed me and leapt with each new text message.

Did he change his mind? Did he want me back?

Like any muscle, it had memory and it kicked in out of habit and repetition.

I had loved Liam for most of my adult life. But how did I get it so wrong?

And then I got it all wrong again with Chris. It’s something I still grapple with today. I made two terrible choices, so how can I possibly trust my own judgement again?

I’m loping along now but break into a sprint so I can whiz past the food trucks without succumbing to the scent of delicious things sizzling on grills or whirling on spits. I really should have eaten breakfast.

I head straight for the middle of the park to stretch and put distance between me and the aroma of lunch. My brain still has work to do. I reach for my toes, allowing my head and arms to hang, my fingertips brushing the grass.

Date Marcus, yes or no , I whisper into the earth, hoping for an answer.

No, my brain screams back at me. Remember when you lost your shit in Target?

My gut twists at the memory. I had cried great, gulping sobs in the greeting card aisle while browsing anniversary cards for Chris.

At the time, nothing captured how I felt.

There were no cards that read, “I am tired of playing wife.”

“I just can’t fake it anymore.”

“We made a terrible mistake on our wedding day.”

Those cards don’t exist.

The very next day, I told my husband of just one year that I had to leave. That I never should have agreed to be his bride. And that I was desperately sorry.

I hated myself for hurting him.

Love sucks. No matter which side you’re on.

Somebody always gets their heart cracked open, their world shattered.

Somebody always wants more, loves more, needs more.

How do you find an equal match? You don’t.

It was a debacle with Liam and even worse with Chris, the wreckage of our relationship scattered between us.

I had loved the wrong man. I had married the wrong man. And I was never going to do either one again.

Marcus is not an option. Single men are not an option. And that’s my final decision, no more internal arguments.

And no more avoiding lunch and my grumbling stomach.

I’m making my way to my favorite cart—the one with the spicy grilled eggplant and preserved lemon pickle—when I get a text from Chef. He’s sending me to a wine seminar tomorrow to find some decent bottles of Italian red for the restaurant.

Nice! I love wine seminars. Not only are they great for networking, but I could stand to brush up on my Italian wines.

That, and they are often filled with out-of-towners, rendering them fecund ground for finding my next married man, especially if any of them regularly frequent the D.C. area for business.

This couldn’t have come at a better time as I desperately need the distraction. And nothing distracts like good wine and, at this very moment, a giant shawarma.