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The Drive Home

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The Unseen Hurdle That Stalled Momentum

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Rée
Jul 07, 2025
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Sex Demystified
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This piece continues a story that marks the final years of my first marriage. If you’re just joining in, this particular road starts with The Spaces In-Between: The Quiet Undoing

If you want to ride with me from the very beginning, start your journey here. It’s a long road of shifting gears and road blocks. You’re going to need snacks and perhaps a little patience. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.

One might’ve noticed a shift in how I moved through the house after my hot girls’ weekend. However, no one, including my husband, was truly paying attention. I was more assertive, setting boundaries like a cartographer sketching out newly claimed territory. Fresh off my sexual rendezvous with Thomas — and now certain that every aspect of our connection was aligned — I felt a strange sense of renewal.

I suddenly felt like there was more life ahead than behind me. And I didn’t want to waste any of it. Quietly, internally, I started thinking about how I could leave my marriage. I wasn’t saying it out loud — not to anyone — not even Thomas. It wasn’t a plan yet. Just a soft “I wonder if…” playing on a loop in my head.

Meanwhile, my husband and I had a trip planned to visit my family in Texas that August. It wasn’t just about seeing my parents — I’d decided this would be the year I finally attended my high school reunion. Twenty-five years since graduation, and I’d never once considered going to any of the previous gatherings. But this one felt different. I’d reconnected with a number of old friends, including a girlfriend who’d been a bridesmaid in my wedding — someone I was genuinely excited to see.

.

One of my best friends, Simone, lived four hours north in Dallas, and she was thrilled to be my date for the reunion. We hadn’t seen each other in person since she moved back to Texas, and this gave us the perfect excuse. She’d be staying with us at my parents’ house which made the whole setup feel slightly less overwhelming.

It was nice knowing I’d have a cohort for the weekend. Especially since my husband had already made it clear he wanted nothing to do with any of it. He planned to hang back with the kids and avoid the event altogether

On night one of the weekend festivities, Simone and I were planning on meeting a few of my classmates for drinks before heading over to join the larger group. My only obstacle that night? My mom. She kept pressing me about why my husband wasn’t coming — offering to watch the kids. She had no idea about the tension quietly simmering beneath the surface.

About half an hour before we were supposed to leave, my husband asked to speak with me. Just far enough from everyone to lower his voice — but not the message. I got an earful. Apparently, I still wasn’t getting it: he wanted no part of this reunion, and he was tired of hearing about it from my mother.

His tone wasn’t passive. It was sharp. I felt like I was being reprimanded for her persistence — like I’d somehow been put in charge of managing his discomfort.

I told him I’d already explained it to her — that she just hadn’t let it go. He didn’t care. He told me to make it clear so he wouldn’t have to hear about it again. Then he turned and walked off in the opposite direction.

The irony? I didn’t want him to come either. But now I was caught in the middle. So I pulled my mom aside, laid it all out, and even told her he was upset with me for not making things clear. She was surprised — genuinely — and admitted she thought I was the one excluding him.

My mom knew some of what I was dealing with in my marriage, but this was before we were close enough for full honesty. Before I started saying the quiet parts out loud.

During all of this, I was still in touch with Thomas. I kept him updated when I could — quick check-ins, quiet moments stolen between family noise. The trickier part was keeping it from Simone. She was never going to admit how much she was enamored by him.

At one point, she asked if I still talked to him. I blinked, smiled, and said something vague about the occasional message — as if he and I hadn’t just texted each other ten-minutes earlier.

She even shared a few updates about Thomas, not realizing I already had the director’s cut. I should’ve majored in theater instead of English — the performance I gave was award-worthy. Thomas, of course, got a kick out of it. He loved hearing the watered-down version of their exchanges — especially knowing exactly what had been said between the two of them.


Also worth noting: I was carrying two phones. My personal cell and my work phone. Did I need my work phone on a family trip? Absolutely not. But it gave me another line to Thomas — one no one questioned if they saw me using. Work emergencies and all that.


Simone and I kicked off the night at a martini bar, where I met up with a high school classmate named Trey — someone I’d reconnected with on Facebook a few months earlier. We’d chatted a bit — mostly harmless stuff — but it was clear early on that he was testing the waters. A few suggestive comments here and there, which I deflected with humor while changing the subject.

He was married, too — and not someone I saw as anything more than a relic from the past. Honestly, Trey and I barely spoke in high school. We didn’t run in the same circles. The friendship we developed started after he reached out about the reunion. Maybe I’d been a little naive assuming it was all innocent. But at the time, it felt harmless enough.

After a drink and a few hellos from classmates trickling in, it was decided we’d head to another bar where the larger group was gathering.

This is also when Thomas started showing signs of jealousy. He knew all about Trey — had read between the lines — and wasn’t exactly subtle about how he felt. Snarky jabs, casually dropped comments, all pointing in the same direction: Trey had an agenda.

I pushed back. Told him it wasn’t even a possibility. I was with Simone, in a public space, surrounded by people I’d known since childhood. He didn’t seem like a threat.

Maybe that was naïve.


The Drive Home series is part memory, part mess, and fully supported by readers. If you’re in for the long haul, become a paid subscriber to ride along with me.

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