stine condition, were flung about the room, most of them torn from the envelopes as if they were nothing more than junk mail.
“What are you doing?” I said.
He was in a black T-shirt and sweatpants. “What am I doing?” he said. “That is too much. You coming in here asking me what I am doing.”
“Those are mine.”
“Oh, I see that, ma belle.”
I leaned down and tried to take them from him. He pulled them away.
“You are having an affair?” he said, smiling. “How very French of you.”
“Max, stop it.”
“I do not mind some infidelity, my dear. If it is respectfully done. And one does not leave evidence.”
The way he said it, I realized he had slept with people outside our marriage, and I wondered if any woman was ever really safe from men like Max and Don. I thought of how many women out there thought they could prevent their husbands from cheating if only they were as gorgeous as Evelyn Hugo. But it never stopped any man I loved.
“I am not cheating on you, Max. So would you cut it out?”
“Maybe you are not,” he said. “I suppose I can believe that. But what I can’t believe is that you are a dyke.”
I closed my eyes, my anger burning so hot inside me that I needed to check out of the world, to momentarily gather myself in my own body.
“I am not a dyke,” I said.
“These letters beg to differ.”
“Those letters are none of your business.”
“Maybe,” Max said. “If these letters are just Celia St. James talking to you about her feelings for you in the past, then I am in the wrong here. And I will put them away right now, and I will apologize to you immediately.”
“Good.”
“I said if.” He stood up and came closer to me. “It is a big if. If these letters were sent leading up to you deciding to visit Los Angeles today, then I am angry, because you are playing me for a fool.”
I really do think that if I told him I had absolutely no intention of seeing Celia in Los Angeles, if I really sold it well, he would have backed off. He might have even said he was sorry and driven me to the airport himself.
And that was my gut instinct, to lie, to hide, to cover up what I was doing and who I was. But just as I opened my mouth to feed him a line, something else came out.
“I was going to see her. You’re right.”
“You were going to cheat on me?”
“I was going to leave you,” I said. “I think you know that. I think you’ve known that for some time. I am going to leave you. If not for her, for me.”
“For her?” he said.
“I love her. I always have.”
Max looked floored, as if he had been pushing me in this game, assuming I’d forfeit. He shook his head in disbelief. “Wow,” he said. “Incredible. I married a dyke.”
“Stop saying that,” I said.
“Evelyn, if you have sex with women, you are a lesbian. Don’t be a self-hating lesbian. That’s not . . . that’s not becoming.”
“I don’t care what you think is becoming. I don’t hate lesbians at all. I’m in love with one. But I loved you, too.”