The more I thought about it, the more I realized that Alfred was right. She would be mad and hurt for a long time, but a flirtatious e-mail wasn’t enough to make her divorce me. She just wanted to make me suffer, and be sure that I knew how much I had hurt her. She still wasn’t aware of the actual sex part, and she never had to be, as far as I was concerned. Danielle seemed to be over it, and the only other person who knew was Larry. He might hate my guts at the moment, but he, like every other red-blooded American man, knew the code—you didn’t rat out another man to a woman, unless she was your sister or mother . . . or you wanted her for yourself. None of which pertained to Larry’s relationship with my wife. At least it had better not. So, all I had to do was give her a heartfelt and sincere apology, do a little groveling, and convince her that the flirtation was just a symptom of our sick marriage, which was the absolute truth. I’d promise her counseling, that Holy Land trip she’d always wanted to take, or whatever else she thought would help us move forward.
