My Wife Thought Room 317 Was Her Secret… Until I W…

Part of me wanted to march into that hotel, take the elevator to the third floor, and confront them at room 317. But that would have been surrendering to emotion, and if there is one thing I learned in my years as an investment banker, it is that emotion is the enemy of strategy. So I started the car and drove to Brady’s, a dive bar near our old apartment where Emma and I used to go when we were first married.

The bartender, Mike, was still there, his hair grayer but his smile the same. “Jonathan Carter,” he said as I slid onto a stool. “Been a while.”

“Too long,” I agreed.

“Bourbon, neat.”

He poured me a generous glass. “Celebrating something?”

I took a long swallow, feeling the burn down my throat. “The opposite.”

Mike nodded, understanding in his eyes.

He had been tending bar for thirty years. He had seen it all. “Want to talk about it?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Maybe after another one of these.”