“Can I come in?” he asks.
“No.”
He drops his gaze over my dress. “Wow. You look stunning.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ll explain, but not in the hallway. Come on. This is my home too.”
I laugh hollowly. “Not in the slightest. You lost the right to walk through this doorway when you brought her here.”
He frowns. “Look, muffin—”
“Reggie, I hate that nickname.”
“You don’t mean that. It’s our thing.”
“I never told you because I loved you, but I don’t anymore, so now I can be honest. It’s patronizing and sexist to reduce me to a baked good. And a fatty, top-heavy one at that.”
He shakes his head, gaping at me. “I don’t believe that.”
“Would you nickname a man ‘muffin,’ or any other pastry for that matter?”
“Not that,” he says, waving a hand. “I don’t believe you don’t love me anymore.”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously? Eleven months, Reggie. Eleven months of emotional whiplash, me feeling insecure and insane while you were off sleeping with someone else. Why would I still love you after you put me through that?”
“Because love doesn’t stop just because I hurt you. Fine, maybe you’re still angry, but . . . you love me.”
I look him in the eye. “I don’t.”
“Amelia, listen to me. I understand you want to be done with this—”
“Then let’s be done with it.”
“We’re making a mistake.”
I curl my hands into fists until my fingernails bite into my palms. “We’re not.”
“Just let me come in for a minute.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
As I go to shut the door, he pushes it back open and reaches for me. I don’t react in time to stop him from taking my arm. His grip is familiar, like his voice or cologne. “Stop,” I say as my heart skips.
“Jesus, relax.” He turns me around to zip up my dress. “It’s been bothering me.”
Even as adrenaline diffuses through me, goose bumps light over my skin when he trails his knuckle up my spine. He knows my tender spots. How to put me on edge. How to get me to yield.
“Why so tense?” he asks, kneading one of my shoulders.
“Let go of me.”
“Aw, come on. Don’t be like that. I’m massaging you, not trying to break your arm for God’s sake.”
I search for the words my therapist, Dianne, always says: Be firm, be confident. You don’t owe him anything. “Reggie, don’t touch me. I’m not your wife anymore, and even if I were, that doesn’t give you the right.”
He removes his hands, showing me his palms as if I’m an animal on the verge of lashing out. “All right, fine. No need to get dramatic. Where are you going?”
I turn back around, brushing my hands down my dress. “Midtown.”
“Need a date?”
“No. It’s a work thing.”
“Ah,” he says. “A work thing. No surprise there.”
He used to find my dedication to work endearing. He valued it. He brought me dinner on the nights I stayed even later than he did at his job, and we ate picnic-style in my office. When I was really stressed, he surprised me with spa appointments. Avec didn’t turn a profit for a while, but he never pressured me about the money he’d invested. I was exhausted and crabby most of that time—and he put up with it without complaint. It wasn’t until things started going well for me that he strayed.
“What are you here for?” I ask, taking a step back. “Really?”
“I told you. I’ve given it time like you asked me to, and I still feel the same. I don’t want to fight anymore. I want us both to keep the apartment and the business, because I want us to make this work.”
“What do you think has changed?”
“Me. I have. Can’t you tell?”
I look him over. He knows I can. I’m not blind and the difference is too great not to notice.
“I quit drinking and I’m going to the gym. Hell, I even took a vacation.” He studies my face as he adds, “I ended things with Virginia, but you knew that.”
Just her name—Virginia—makes my stomach flip. “I don’t care if you won the Nobel Prize,” I say. “You cheated on me.”
“I was an idiot. I’ve done a lot of thinking. With avec, you needed me—not just my money, but me. Then, things clicked, and that stopped.”
An admission like that from him is a breakthrough of sorts. I’m certain he couldn’t have come to it on his own, which means he’s likely talking to someone—a step forward for someone who doesn’t believe in therapy. I know, because I tried to get him to go when we were together.
“I know what you’re doing,” I say, unaffected by his progress. After my own therapy and picking apart infidelity with many scorned friends, I could write a book on the behavior of a cheater. “You’re trying to turn the blame on me. I wasn’t what you needed, therefore you had to look elsewhere.”
“You’re projecting your insecurities onto me,” he says, and now I know he’s also been working with someone. “I never blamed you. Once you found out about Virginia, I took responsibility. I’m just trying to tell you why I did it so you can see how I’m different now.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“I know what I’m getting into this time. Avec will always be your top priority, but I’d rather come in second place than not at all.”
I’m taken aback to hear him say avec will always be number one. Will it? Can it? Every twelve-hour day I work passes quickly as I do my best to keep my head above water. Because of that, I rarely stop to think about the big picture. Is that what I want to be doing the rest of my life? Nearly drowning in details and day-to-day decisions? I don’t remember deciding that, but if I continue down this path, avec will be all I ever have.
I gave things up in exchange for a successful business. But with Reggie’s assumption that there’s no room at the top for anything other than work, I can’t help wondering if it was ever a mistake to choose avec over love. Not over Reggie, because he proved himself unworthy, but he’s right that I did put work before him any chance I got.
“I’m glad you ended things with her,” I say. “You shouldn’t be with someone who had no problem carrying on an affair with a married man for almost a year. But it doesn’t change my mind.”
His face falls. “I’m not asking you to forgive me on the spot,” he says. “But I want to start over. To put the past behind us and try to make this marriage work.”
“No. Your attempts to manipulate me won’t work anymore.”
“Manipulate?” He furrows his eyebrows. “I’m being honest.”
I never thought of Reggie as controlling until after I realized he’d been cheating. Somehow, he always managed to make me think his ideas were mine, even the little things, like choosing where to eat. My therapist grilled me one session just to get what she wanted—a simple, meaningless conversation over choosing where to have dinner.
“Where should we go?” Reggie had asked. “Anywhere you want. It’s your night.”
“How about the Italian place on the corner?”
“Sounds great. Their Bolognese is crap, but the rest of the menu is good.”
“Bolognese? That’s your favorite.”
“It’s fine. I’ll get something else.”
“I guess we could try the new place that opened on Seventh? The one you mentioned last week?”
“If that’s what you want,” he’d said, kissing my forehead. “Like I said, it’s your night.”
I wouldn’t have remembered that conversation on my own, but Dianne had known exactly what she was looking for. Once I’d relayed it to her, memories of other, similar conversations flooded me. Some as simple as that. Some more complicated, deep emotional betrayals I don’t think too hard about.
“I guess I don’t blame you for trying to manipulate me since I fell for it
for years,” I tell him.
“That’s crazy, Amelia. Maybe I made a lot of mistakes, but I always loved you. I always tried to make you happy, even when I was with her.”
“Don’t come here again.”
“Or what? You have nothing over me. I own your apartment. Your business.” He looks me over. “I mean, if you think about it, I even own your body . . .”
I clench my teeth, even though I know he’s only trying to get under my skin. “Go to hell.”
“You own mine too. I have the paperwork. What good is a marriage certificate if it doesn’t prove we belong to each other?”