He does look away then. Drops his gaze to his expensive shoes.
“We’ve been divorced almost two years, Yas. We knew we’d move on. I honestly didn’t think it would be a big deal.”
Move on.
I’d just told myself it was good that we were moving on. And it is, but seeing him “moving on” in the house we built together, in the residue of the life we shared…I didn’t know it would affect me this way.
“It’snota big deal.” I stand to fluff the cushion Vashti’s pert little ass was just seated on. “I guess I was caught off guard.”
“Like I said, I haven’t told the kids anything. Vashti’s around at work a lot. It was casual. She was finishing up as we were leaving, and I invited her along. I didn’t make a big deal of it, but I want to be honest with them.”
He bites his bottom lip, and a sudden, ill-timed memory of those perfectly full lips on me assaults my senses. Kissing the curve of my neck. Sucking my breasts. Sliding over my stomach and down, down, down.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
“I want to be honest with you,” he continues, completely oblivious to how my mind is flashback-fucking him. “Vashti’s great and, though it may ultimately go nowhere, we want to see where this leads.”
“What if it goes left? We could be out a chef. It took a long time to find her.”
“Like I need you reminding me how long it took to find a good chef.”
Funny how the words hedoesn’tsay can sting more than the ones he does.
He doesn’t have to say that when Byrd died I was in no shape to help, that he was the one at Grits from open to close. He wore all the hats—owner, manager, you name it—when I could barely hold up my head at all. Even now his eyes hold no accusation. Only memories that if we voice could shatter the tenuous peace we’ve managed to negotiate.
“Vashti and I did have that conversation,” he says. “We agreed to keep work separate as much as we can. She loves her job and she’s essential at Grits. Her cooking dug us out of the hole when Byrd passed.”
“Just be careful, Si, and not only because of work.” I gulp down hot emotion and force myself to keep speaking. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
His laugh, like so many things tonight, takes me by surprise. The sonic boom of it startles me, bounces off the walls and floods the room.
“What’s so funny?” I venture after a few seconds of him laughing and shaking his head in seeming disbelief.
The humor in his eyes, if it was ever genuine, dissipates, leaving his gaze cool, flat. “The irony of you saying you don’t want to see someone hurt me.”
“I-I don’t.”
“No one in my whole life has ever hurt me like you did.”
Shock shuts me up. I’m struck dumb, but the accusations he doesn’t bother voicing, the grievances I didn’t realize were so deeply held, screech in the silence. They blare from his eyes, fixed on me, not even a blink interrupting the unrelenting intensity of his stare.
“I’m the one who asked for the divorce, yeah,” I say, suddenly unsure of something I should be certain of. “But we agreed.”
“Is that how you remember it? Because I remember the worst possible thing happening to us both, to this whole family, and you shutting me out. I remember us losing…”
Don’t say it. Don’t you say his name. I can’t hear his name right now. Not tonight.
“Never mind,” he sighs, and it’s my reprieve. He grips the back of his neck. “This shit is ancient history. I’m too tired for it.”
I should press, demand that he finish the thought, but it, like so many other things we stopped saying when things got hard, remains buried under the rubble of our silence.
“I’m gonna go,” he says and heads to the front door. “Early start tomorrow.”
“Sure. Okay.”
I trail him into the foyer. When he pulls open one of the wide French doors, in the sliver of space, in the breath of a moment, I see his Rover idling in the driveway. The interior light is on, Vashti’s face clearly visible, her eyes alert and trained on my front porch. On Josiah. Her expression brightens with a smile, even as her glance drifts over his shoulder and briefly meets mine. In that tiny space, an understanding forms between us, and I know why we never clicked. She’s not sure about me. About Josiah and me. It makes sense. Our lives tangle, vines running through our kids and our business. We have a history. A long, turbulent one. And even though we’re no longer married, it’s obvious we’re still connected in so many ways. I can’t blame her. I’d wonder too.
I could tell her she has nothing to worry about. The passion, the love, the fierce devotion that once existed between Josiah and me? I burned that to the ground long ago. Whatever remains is as cold and stiff as the look he slants over his shoulder at me before the door closes behind him.