Swimming in Circles

The vitamin D supplement sat on my nightstand, a small yellow capsule mocking me. Three months of prescriptions, and I still felt like I was moving through gelatin.

"You're spying on me again," David said from the doorway, not looking at me. He was gaunter lately, though we never discussed it.

"I wasn't. I was worried."

"You were worried I was cheating."

"I was worried you were dying."

Silence, thick and suffocating. Bear—our ancient golden retriever—thumped his tail against the floorboards, sensing the electric current between us. He'd been David's dog first, a decade ago, back when we were both different people.

"Show me your laptop," David said finally.

I opened it. The encryption software I'd used to track his location, his messages, his life—corporate espionage tools I'd borrowed from my old job at the security firm—stared back at me.

"I thought you were having an affair."

"I thought you didn't trust me."

"I don't trust myself," I said. "I don't trust that I'm not losing you."

David's shoulders dropped. The fight went out of him like air from a tire. "It's not an affair, Mark. It's not what you think."

"Then what?"

He turned away. "I have cancer."

The room spun. I reached for the nightstand, knocked over the vitamin bottle. Capsules scattered across the floor like spilled promises.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you were too busy playing spy instead of husband."

The truth hit harder than his words ever could. I'd spent three months surveilling my husband, searching for betrayals that didn't exist, while he was carrying this alone.

Bear stood slowly, joints creaking, and limped to David. Pressed his warm forehead against David's thigh. That old dog knew—had probably smelled it on him months ago.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm so fucking sorry."

That night, I couldn't sleep. I drove to the lake at 3 AM, stripped to my skin, and waded into the black water. Swimming in circles until my muscles burned, until the cold forced me to feel something other than shame.

When I returned, David was awake. Bear was curled beside him on the bed. There was no accusation in David's eyes—just exhaustion, and something that looked like forgiveness.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" he asked quietly.

"No," I said. "I found what I needed."

"And what's that?"

"To remember how to swim."