The Drive Home

Weeks passed. Not dramatically. Not in some sweeping, life-altering way. Just quietly.

Elena and I texted a few more times after that hotel night. Nothing as pointed. Nothing as revealing. Just enough to keep the current alive. Memes. Teasing. A late-night “are you still up?” once or twice. But I kept thinking about that one exchange:

That would’ve been nice.

I’d replay it at odd moments; brushing my teeth, sitting in traffic, lying beside Hannah, my wife, after she’d fallen asleep. It lived in the back of my mind like a song I couldn’t turn off. I told myself it was ego. That’s all it was. She liked attention. I liked giving it. Harmless. That’s what I told myself.

The night at our friend’s house was supposed to be simple. A small group. Food. Drinks. Music too loud for meaningful conversation.

Elena and her sister arrived later on via Uber. I saw her before she saw me. She’d done something different with her hair. Subtle. But enough. When she finally noticed me across the room, her expression changed, just slightly. Not surprise. Not shock. Recognition.

We didn’t talk about the texts. We didn’t need to. But every time I made a joke and she laughed, it felt loaded. Every time our eyes met across the kitchen, it lasted half a second too long. Still nothing inappropriate. Still defensible. That’s the dangerous part.

By the time we left, it was close to midnight. Hannah offered Elena and her sister a ride home. They gladly accepted. 

The drive back was long and dark; just highway and scattered streetlights cutting through stretches of empty road.

Hannah claimed the passenger seat. She was out within fifteen minutes, head tilted toward the window, soft breathing filling the front of the car.

Elena’s sister had already been dropped off. So it was just us. She sat behind my wife, diagonal from me. Music played low; some slow indie song neither of us commented on. I kept my eyes on the road.

I didn’t look in the mirror at first. I didn’t need to. I could feel it. That awareness. That pull. Finally, almost against my will, I adjusted the rearview slightly. And there she was… Not on her phone. Not asleep. Looking at me.

Her head was tipped back against the seat, hair spilling over her shoulder. She looked tired, soft around the edges, but her eyes were open. Focused. On me.

I flicked my gaze back to the road immediately. My pulse kicked up anyway. A few seconds passed. I told myself I imagined it. I checked again. Still there. Still watching. Not smiling. Not smirking. Just… looking.

There was something different about it. Not playful. Not teasing. Intentional. The kind of look that says, I know what we didn’t say.

The highway stretched endlessly in front of us. Hannah shifted in her sleep but didn’t wake. I adjusted the mirror again, subtly, giving myself a better angle under the excuse of visibility. Elena’s eyes didn’t move. She didn’t look away when she realized I’d caught her. That’s what got me. If it had been accidental, she would’ve glanced down. Pretended. Closed her eyes… She didn’t. She just held it.

And in that quiet car, engine humming, music barely audible, my wife asleep less than two feet away, something passed between us that didn’t require words. It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t even desire, not in the physical sense. It was awareness. Of what we’d said. Of what we hadn’t said. Of the fact that we were both thinking about it.

I swallowed and looked back at the road. Ten seconds later, I checked again. Still there. Her eyes were heavier now, lids lower. But she was awake enough for it to be real.

Slowly, almost lazily, she shifted her gaze down to the mirror itself, like she was making sure I knew she knew. Then back to me. A silent question. Or maybe a silent confession.

My hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. I could’ve broken it. Could’ve adjusted the mirror away. Could’ve spoken, asked if she was tired, if she needed anything. I didn’t. I let it hang there. For miles. Until eventually her eyes closed. Or maybe she just decided she’d done enough.

I didn’t check again for a while. But when we pulled into her driveway and parked, I felt it; that strange, suspended moment where the night could tip in any direction.

My wife stirred, stretching. Elena opened the back door and stepped out without a word, as if nothing had happened. But before she closed it, she leaned down slightly, catching my eye one last time through the mirror. A faint, almost imperceptible smile.

“Thanks for the ride”, she said.  Then she shut the door. And I sat there a second longer than necessary before driving away.