Dateline.

You know those episodes of Dateline or 48 Hours we used to laugh at? Jilted lover, dumb redneck plan, car goes over a cliff, phone records seized and someone caught on surveillance tape at the Kwik Trip.

I have to admit, as Karla and I were winging our way westward on Wednesday night (say that three times fast!) to surprise you, I kept feeling like there was a possibility things could go sideways and one of us would end up face down in a river.

It seemed like a good plan, for the most part. From the minute I learned about this whole mess, I wanted to see you. I wanted to know you were OK. I wanted to pin you down, face to face, where you could not ignore me.

I wanted you to look me in the face and tell me the truth. I thought you owed me that.

So I hatched the plan.

First I needed a rental car, as mine wouldn’t make it to Wyoming. The bonus was that it potentially would not have WI plates, making us a little more on the DL.

Then I needed driving snacks. Pop Tarts and those Gardetto garlic rye chips for Karla. Strawberry Nibs and Diet Coke for me.

Then, I needed a plan. My goal was to arrive mid-afternoon … before kids would be home from school, but when you’d likely be home. I checked the hunting schedules to see if it was possible you’d be in a tree stand or something.

We arrived around 1:30P, I think. I had lots of options for my arrival, depending on the situation I found. I had elaborate plans where I tricked you into coming into town to pick up a gift certificate you’d “won” at Old Chicago. I had simple versions where I just walked up to the front door and knocked. I contemplated calling you from the driveway and telling you to come out and see me or I’d go up to the door and knock … not knowing if anyone else would be home.

Imagine my surprise when I saw the truck for sale at the end of the driveway!

Better yet, the phone number on the For Sale sign matched the number I’d found for you online … the one I’d called under “Restricted” the week before just to make sure it was you.

There was a Cadillac sitting in the driveway. Did that mean you were home? Was she home? We weren’t sure.

So I put on my mask to muffle my voice and dialed. I tried to keep my discussion about wanting to see the for sale truck short and sweet. I tried to make my voice sound sort of funny. You said you weren’t home, but would be there in a half hour.

We went to wait, parked in what I think was the fire station at the entrance to the Sleepy Hollow subdivision. I needed to see if you were alone or not to know what our next step would be.

Twenty minutes later, you drove by. Karla gunned it and got out behind you. This is when it started to feel a little like a clown car cop show. I wanted to stay close enough behind you to not lose you, but not so close that you’d see it was us. (You’re very observant.)

When you turned into your driveway, I told Karla to block you in. And I hopped out as you went to get the mail.

I don’t think you recognized Karla.

But you put it together pretty quickly. And, to your credit, you didn’t flinch.

I asked if we could take a ride and you said yes.

Seeing you for the first time in a year was really, really strange. So fucking familiar … everything about you … the smell of your chew, the CAT sweatshirt, the stubble. So very bizarre … sitting in a truck covered in her … cheater glasses, pretty fabric wrapped around the gearshift (Masks? Ponytail holders?), mail shoved in the visor.

It was like the front seat was hers and the backseat was yours. Tools, a level, a can of spray paint.

We drove a few miles away, to an open spot with some mail boxes. My goal was to not say anything. Not yell, not cry. To let you talk.

Not sure I was successful there.

At first you denied everything. It wasn’t what I thought it was. But, Jim, your clothes are hanging in the master bedroom closet in the Iowa house. Well, you said, I don’t love her. I’m not sleeping with her. But, Jim, you’re going to tell me you’ve lived in four houses in three states in three bedroom homes where her daughter and grandkids also live and you don’t share a room? She calls you “honey” in emails. She refers to you as her fella on Facebook. But you’re not sleeping with her?

You say the last time you had sex was with me. You tell me that you love me. You tell me that you don’t like yourself enough to love anyone else.

I look at you skeptically. Truthfully, I want to believe you. But I can’t. It’s ridiculous for me to believe you at this point. I have to find a comfortable spot in the not knowing. In the never knowing.

You tell me how unhappy you are. How miserable. How you just exist and how you’re not really living. You tell me that you’re too tired to fight anymore. That your whole life has been a fight … ever since your mom died. And you just can’t fight anymore.

I ask about your upcoming move to Oklahoma with her, given her new contract, starting in April. I can see you wondering how I know. I talk about how totally Sympson it is for you to fall into a pile of shit and come out smelling like a rose. A woman with earning potential that allows you to not work at all. That gets you to your dream in Wyoming.

You insist she isn’t moving to OK, but to TX. Fine. The company who is hiring her is in OK. Totally possible they have offices in TX. And you tell me you’re not going with her. You’re staying in WY. Going to get an apartment, a job, and live happily with your dog.

OK, so she commutes to Texas and the homebase is still in WY and y’all live happily ever after.

You decide you’ve had enough. We drive back to find Karla. You get out of the truck after signing the IRS amendments, totaling $20K+, to tell her hi. I search my purse trying to find SOMETHING to leave behind so she knows I was there. And I can’t find anything fast enough.

I give you the photo of Kati I brought. And the receipt for the $10K I paid on your behalf to the WI Dept of Revenue.

You don’t say thank you. You don’t apologize to me for not stepping up.

You say you’ll pay me back … but there’s no discussion of a timeframe.

That makes me feel like a total sucker. You know I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place. I’m on the hook for the money since the LLC doesn’t protect me and my personal finances.

You give me a hug. I tell you that I love you. You tell me that you love me. But you won’t look me in the face.

And that’s it. You climb back in her truck and you leave.

I climb in the rental and I bawl.

My Jim is gone. Wyoming Jim, as I’ve entered into my contact list, is here. And I barely recognize him.

I wonder if you recognize him. Is he here to stay?