He sent another question mark, so I typed back before I lost my nerve and drove away.
You know why. Come outside. I’m parked in the guest lot.
Not my most mature and finest moment, and I’d lost the element of surprise, but I was also hoping he would just confess and save me the trouble of a shaky and unresearched accusation.
My cell phone rang.
I sent his call to voice mail, then—in a bold and uncharacteristic move—turned off my phone and set it in the cup holder. If he wanted to talk, he could come outside. Screw any meetings. Screw any calls. I was his wife, dammit. Oh God. The tears were already building, leaking out the edges of my eyes.
I stared at the building.Come on, Mike.This was me, hanging from a ledge, asking him to grab my hand and pull our marriage to safety.
He could come down three flights of stairs and out to my car, or he could stay inside.
I gripped the steering wheel tightly.
Come on, Mike. Save us.
CHAPTER 12
LILLIAN
It took five excruciating minutes. Minutes in which I flip-flopped between an emotional outburst of tears and a sharp fury that dictated I follow my mother’s lead and cut off his balls while he slept.
I wanted him. I needed him. I didn’t know how to exist, how to function, without him. How could he break up our family?
I hated him. I was bored with him. I wanted passion and excitement, which were the antithesis of him. Forget him dumping me—I should have left him years ago.
By the time the front door of the building swung open and Mike walked out, I was teetering on an emotional tightrope and close to falling off. He crossed the lawn slowly, his dark tie held in place by his left hand, his glasses on instead of his contacts. The wind whipped the legs of his charcoal pants, and his pale-blue dress shirt still held the iron creases along his forearms. He met my eyes through the windshield and held them, and I could see the wary uncertainty in his step as he crossed over a low border shrub and approached the passenger side of my car. He opened the door and lowered himself inside, then quietly and carefully closed it.
A beat of silence lingered. Stretched. My hands were trembling, and I tucked them underneath my thighs to hide the weakness. “Tell me why.”
He didn’t move, didn’t speak, and his lack of reaction told me everything I needed to know. He was guilty. The only question was how long this had been going on and to what depth his emotional investment extended.
My chest thickened and I pinned my lips together and prayed he couldn’t see the vulnerability on my face.
“I don’t have an excuse, Lill. It was just ...” He paused. “A series of bad decisions.”
Outside the car, a leaf blew across the lot and stuck to the windshield. “Who is she?”
At his silence, I twisted in my seat to face him. “Whoisshe?” I repeated, my voice growing stronger.
He paused, and I knew this face, this quiet look, his pupils minutely tick-tocking, his breathing quiet and calm. He was thinking, calculating, a dozen thought processes shifting and moving into place behind the scenes. I had seen this process a hundred times, and watching it, I realized my mistake.
I had shown one of my cards—chosen a question that alerted him to how little I knew. If I didn’t even know who she was, how could I know the extent of his deceit?
He swallowed against his tightly buttoned collar. “How did you find out?”
Shit. Could I lie? Could I backtrack and find higher, more confident ground? I searched for another path and failed. “It doesn’t matter,” I snapped. “I know about it all. Santa Barbara. Tuesday night. You aren’t as smart as you think you are.” I blew out an angry breath. “Why? What the fuck—wasn’t I enough?”
He shook his head. “Stop. It doesn’t have anything to do with you, Lill. It’s just sexual. A mistake. It didn’t mean anything.”
It’s just sexual.What a stupid and hurtful statement. I balled my hands into fists and hit the steering wheel so hard that my forearms vibrated in pain. “Whoisshe?” I repeated, my voice rising. “Someoneyounger? Hotter?”God, I bet she’s waxed.Probably cellulite-free, with no responsibilities and stupid enough to find his OCD tendencies cute.
“It’s no one you know,” he said quickly. “And she’s our age. Not hotter. She’s just different.” He didn’t say all the things a husband in trouble should say:No one is as hot as you. Lill, you’re beautiful. You’re perfect.Instead, he just sat on the statement, a period of silence at the end of the inadequate sentence.
“You’re a pig.” The words broke out of my chest with jagged edges, and to my horror, I started to cry.
“Lill ...” He reached for my hand and I moved it away. He twisted in his seat, facing me. “I’ll stop it. Right now. Immediately. I promise.”