Page 1 of The Big Race
The Final Clue
I first suspected something was wrong when my husband Ray started taking his phone into the bathroom with him when he showered.
He’d never done that before. He often said, “Remember, Jeffrey, electronics and steam don’t mix.
” But suddenly his phone was his constant companion, clutched in his hand like some kind of digital lifeline.
Our master bathroom had always been a sanctuary of sorts—gleaming white subway tiles that I’d insisted on during our renovation five years ago, the oversized rainfall showerhead that Ray had splurged on, and the double vanity where we’d stood side by side for thousands of mornings, sharing sleepy smiles in the mirror as we prepared for our days.
Now the closed door between us felt like more than just wood and hinges.
“The Miami Shipping Consortium account is really coming together,” he’d say, dropping his keys in the ceramic bowl by the door—the one our son Leo made in elementary school ceramics, lopsided but perfect.
Ray’s hazel eyes would dart away from mine as he loosened his tie.
“We had to hash out some details on the service agreement.”
I’d nod, push his dinner plate into the microwave, and pretend I didn’t notice the unfamiliar scent that clung to his collar—something woodsy and expensive that wasn’t the Polo sport he’d worn for years.
We hadn’t had sex in months, not since that awkward attempt on my birthday when he couldn’t maintain an erection and blamed it on too much wine at dinner.
I’d been relieved, if I was honest with myself.
It was easier to fall asleep back-to-back than to face the growing distance between us.
The mattress might as well have been the Grand Canyon for all the space that yawned between our bodies each night.
Twenty-five years together, and suddenly I didn’t know how to reach across twelve inches of Egyptian cotton to touch my husband’s shoulder.
The final clue came in the form of a text message that popped up while Ray was in the shower one Saturday morning.
He’d left his phone on the kitchen counter—a rookie mistake.
I wasn’t snooping, not really. I was going to move it away from the coffee maker when the screen lit up with a preview that was brief, but clear: “Missing you already, stud. Take care of yourself.”
There was no picture at the top of the screen, just the generic head and shoulders in a circle. Underneath was a phone number I didn’t recognize, from the 645 area code, one that had just been opened up in Miami a year before.
My hand froze mid-air. The sunny breakfast nook where we’d shared thousands of meals together suddenly felt cold.
Outside our bay window, the hibiscus hedge we’d planted when we adopted Leo was in full bloom, its bright red flowers vibrant against the clear blue Florida sky.
The familiar weekend sounds of the neighbors in our gated community—lawn mowers, children playing, someone’s reggaeton music drifting from an open window—continued as my world tilted on its axis.
When Ray came downstairs, hair still damp, I was sitting at the kitchen table with his phone in front of me.
Water droplets still clung to his neck, disappearing into the collar of the faded University of Florida t-shirt I’d bought him for a birthday gift years before.
His steps faltered when he saw my face, recognition and resignation washing over his features in an instant.
“Who’s this message from?” I asked, my voice steadier than I’d expected. Years of managing software development teams through crises had given me the ability to sound calm even when I was falling apart inside.
“Russell. He’s a client. Was a client.” He met my eyes with obvious difficulty. “And yes, we were sleeping together. I ended it last night.”
He reached for the phone but I pulled it back, the smooth case slipping slightly in my clammy hand.
“How long?”
“Three months.” He looked down at his hands—strong, capable hands that had held mine through my parents’ funerals, that had steadied Leo on his first bicycle, that had built the bookshelves lining our living room.
Now they twisted together on the table, unfamiliar in their nervousness.
“It wasn’t... it wasn’t about sex, not really. ”
“Then what was it about?”
“He’s a triathlete. Trains in Colorado half the year. He’d tell me about his climbs, his races. All the things I gave up...” He trailed off, the morning sunlight catching the silver that had begun to thread through his dark hair at the temples.
“For us,” I finished. “For Leo.”
“I don’t regret that,” he said quickly, his gaze snapping back to mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. “Being Leo’s dad—being your husband—that’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”
His words should have warmed me, but they felt like the platitudes you offer at a funeral—true but insufficient in the face of grief.
“But it’s not enough anymore?” The coffee maker beeped, the familiar aroma filling the kitchen, a cruel reminder of how normal everything had been just minutes ago.
“It’s not that simple.” He ran his hands through his wet hair, leaving it standing in uncharacteristic disarray.
Ray was always put together, always the polished salesman.
This disheveled version was almost as unfamiliar as the confession.
“Russell made me feel young again. Alive. Like the guy I was when you and I met, before mortgages and college funds and staying home every weekend.”
His words cut deeper than I’d expected. We’d built this life together, decision by decision, compromise by compromise.
The mortgage on our Mediterranean revival townhouse with its terracotta roof and bougainvillea-draped courtyard.
The college fund for Leo that we’d started the day the adoption was finalized.
The weekends at home that had gradually replaced our earlier adventures as responsibilities and age crept up on us.
“While I make you feel old? Boring?” My voice cracked slightly, betraying the calm facade.
“You make me feel safe,” he said, the words landing between us with unexpected weight. “And lately, that’s started to feel like suffocation.”
I pushed back from the table, my chair scraping against the terra cotta floor tiles we’d installed together during our kitchen renovation. “Well, I wouldn’t want to suffocate you.”
“Jeffrey, wait—” Ray stood up quickly, his face pale with panic beneath his perpetual tan. “Don’t do this. Don’t give up on us for one bad choice, please.”
“You made a series of choices, Ray.” The anger was rising now, burning through the shock. “Every time you met him. Every text you sent.” I glared at him. “Every time you sucked his dick or screwed him.”
“I know.” His voice cracked, and I saw tears gathering in his eyes.
In twenty-five years, I’d seen Ray cry only three times—when his mother died, when we confirmed Leo’s adoption, and when we were finally legally married ten years into our relationship.
“And I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
But twenty-five years together has to count for something.
” He took a tentative step towards me. “What if we see someone? A counselor?”
I crossed my arms, creating a barrier between us. The watch he’d given me for our twentieth anniversary felt heavy on my wrist. “You think talking to a stranger will fix this?”
“No.” He shook his head. “But it might help us figure out if it can be fixed. If we can be fixed.” His eyes pleaded with me. “I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll sleep on the couch, I’ll give you all the space you need. Just... don’t throw away everything we’ve built without trying.”
I stood there, torn between walking out and the tiny flame of hope that flickered somewhere deep inside me.
We’d been through so much together—building a home, raising Leo, creating a life.
The photo collage on our hallway wall flashed through my mind—Ray and me on our first hike together, his arm around my shoulders as I squinted nervously at the camera, afraid of the height; the three of us at Leo’s high school graduation, all of us teary-eyed and proud; our wedding day, finally legal after so many years waiting. Could I really end it all?
“I need time to think,” I said finally. “But I’ll do some research on counselors.”
Ray’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you.”
I didn’t make Ray sleep on the couch, but there was a definite space between us.
I threw myself into researching marriage counselors with the same intensity I usually reserved for debugging code.
I created spreadsheets, read reviews, and checked credentials.
If we were going to do this, we were going to do it right.
When I wasn’t working or researching, I moved through our house like a ghost, rediscovering the evidence of our shared life—Ray’s collection of marathon medals hanging in the home office, the dent in the living room wall from when Leo had tried to practice basketball inside, the slightly mismatched paint where we’d tried to fix it ourselves.
“I found someone,” I told Ray three days later, sliding a printout across the kitchen counter. “Dr. Lieber in Wilton Manors. She specializes in long-term same-sex couples.”
Ray picked up the paper, scanning it quickly. His expression shifted subtly, the furrow between his eyebrows deepening. “Her office is in the Pride Center?”
“She’s got twenty years of experience with couples like us,” I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee, avoiding his eyes. “And she’s one of the few therapists who takes our insurance.”
Ray set the paper down, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Do we really need someone who makes such a big deal about the gay thing? I mean, her website has more rainbow flags than a pride parade.”
“Our issues aren’t entirely separate from being gay men who’ve been together for decades,” I pointed out, leaning against the counter.
“And she understands the specific challenges we’ve faced—getting married later in life when it finally became legal, adopting Leo in a state that wasn’t always friendly to families like ours. ”
“I guess.” He fidgeted with his coffee mug—the chipped FSU one that Leo had brought home after his first semester. “I just don’t want to spend our sessions talking about identity politics or whatever. I screwed up, plain and simple. It’s not because I’m gay.”
I felt a flash of irritation. “No, it’s because you cheated. With another man. Which makes it pretty relevant to find a therapist who won’t tell us to pray away the gay or suggest I wasn’t being a good enough wife.”
Ray winced at my tone but nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He reached for the printout again, studying it with more care this time. “When can we start?”
“She has an opening next Tuesday at seven.”
“I’ll be there,” he said quickly. Then, after a moment’s hesitation: “Thank you for trying, Jeffrey. For not just walking away.”
I nodded, unable to articulate that I wasn’t entirely sure if I was staying because of hope or habit. Either way, we needed more than just therapy.