Chapter 25 Now
Now
“And how is everything?” the waitress asks.
I try to blink away images of George’s lifeless body as I root around for an answer about the overpriced and underseasoned eggs in front of me. The bright, brassy decor of the restaurant fails to push away the dark memories.
It’s the reason Claire finally upped sticks to LA and left me here, I’d found myself explaining to Dimple. She was tired of sacrificing for me. And who could blame her? I was dating another douche, and this time, he hadn’t just hurt me, but hurt her, too.
My mother was livid, of course. Called me every name under the sun.
It’s why I stopped seeing her. Why we don’t talk.
And then Emily…She heard what happened. Reached out to me.
It was a hard phone call when we finally spoke.
She told me I needed help. Guess there were too many dead boyfriends around me to ignore.
So that was it. The Big Fallout.
It’s why I wrote the letters, why I started to see Dr. Foster. I wanted to make sense of things, break the pattern, make healthier choices. Had to at least prove to Claire that I was willing to do the work so she’d let me back in again. It took time. But we got there.
Even after all these years, I still hate him.
George. Hate him for what he did and hate him for filling me with so much hatred.
So much that it’s pushed out many of my happier thoughts and feelings to make room for itself.
At the very least, he made the story I spun of him attacking me easier to swallow.
Turns out he had quite the rap sheet: aggravated assault, harassment, stalking.
I’m not stupid; I’d looked him up online, but he’d given me a fake surname that hid his history, and given his socials didn’t use his surname, I’d no idea he was living a double life.
His list of charges included cracking his mother’s jaw when she refused to give him a larger share of his dad’s will after cancer killed him.
Some nonsense about George being head of the family, deserving to manage the funds.
His family’s testimony also helped me out in the end.
Someone ought to arrest the podcasters George was poisoned by, too.
I make a mental note to call Claire in the evening. Hearing her voice would do me good. A wave of pain hits me at the thought of how unreachable she is, leaving me winded. An unsent message sits drafted in our chat.
I miss you. I know you won’t come home, but I need you here. I’m falling apart without you.
“The food’s delicious, thank you,” James says for both of us with his most charming smile.
I’ve clearly been lost in my head for an uncomfortable amount of time.
The waitress blushes and I try to tamp down the stab of jealousy that flares up as she walks away.
It’s too easy to wonder if James’s betrayal of me with the money is just a precursor to more betrayal.
Is that how it will start? A seemingly innocent smile and a coy look, right in front of my face?
After George, I promised myself I’d never be too trusting of a man again, but I can’t let myself become paranoid, either.
It’s not hard to see why our waitress is besotted with James.
His chunky knit jumper, tortoiseshell glasses, and softly styled hair make him look like the romantic lead in a festive film, somehow lifted straight out of the movie and plonked in the middle of this midrange brasserie opposite the witch who stole Christmas.
“How are your eggs?” he asks.
“Yeah, good.” The answer he wants to hear. I even manage a smile.
It’s date day, which James has been good at making sure we keep steady at, even while everything else around us rocks. He’s still cautious around me, even as his words tell me that there’s nothing to worry about. But at least he’s trying. We both are.
Today, date day is brunch, followed by a couple’s massage and a trip to the cinema.
As usual, I’ll take a few turns around the spa pool post-massage, while James simply sweats it out in the sauna.
It’s sweet that he’s organized this, that he wants to organize these things for us.
It’s what made falling for him so effortless—from acts of service to quality time or gifts, he’s fluent in all the love languages.
It’s so easy to melt into loving a man who holds you that securely.
My eyes linger on the olive pits that sit in a small cup between us, chewed up and spat out.
I feel like one of those pits. Life has sunk its teeth into my flesh and scraped the meat away from my bones.
My eyes linger on the cocktail sticks sleepily crisscrossed within the cup.
I think of that night in the bar with Mr. Periphery.
It’s the first time I’ve thought of him in a while.
Perhaps I should be more nervous about potential repercussions, but after a quick news scan the next morning didn’t turn up results, I let it go.
The only thing that keeps me up at night is the fear that he hasn’t learned his lesson.
James and I enjoy inconsequential chat as we eat.
I’m telling him about Ama being headhunted for a new role when he sheepishly mentions an executive assistant opening he’s seen.
For me. At another company. I’ve not begrudged him bringing work home with increased out-of-hours calls, texts, and emails recently—I know that world is his safe space—but now removing home from work?
It’s hard not to catastrophize, to think of how maybe seeing me all day in the office and then at home is now too much for him.
Now that he’s seen behind the facade of the Cool Girl and has the Crazy Wife.
It’s hard not to think of the unspoken concession I’d be making in terms of my right to maternity leave if I leave the business, and what James’s acceptance of that means for our future.
“Are you okay?” he asks, trying to clear the cobwebs of my guardedness away.
“Yeah. No, I get it. Probably healthy for our marriage for us to have a little space.”
“That’s not why I—”
“I know,” I interject.
“But it’s probably also true. I’m not so sure I always get being your husband and being your boss right.
” He smiles. It occurs to me that he smiles a lot, like Dimple.
“Well, at least I’m a better boss than Will would be.
” A dry laugh. “Christ, I know we’ve still got a few months to go until he becomes a problem again, but it doesn’t feel like enough time. ”
Suddenly, the knife feels very present in my hand: the weight of it, the bite of the spine against my fingertip, the coolness of it against my skin.
It’s a feeble thing, too blunt to do any real damage, but in that moment, I can’t help but imagine that with enough force applied, perhaps it might.
After all, James and I might have broken each other’s trust, but it’s Will who’s really destroyed everything for me.
If he had left things alone, hadn’t been so greedy, hadn’t been so reckless in the first instance, I’d be well on my way to being pregnant right now.
The feeling is so ugly it frightens me. I do my best to wrap it tightly in impenetrable denial and pack it away somewhere in the recesses of my mind.
“You know that’s not just your problem to handle. It’s my mess, too. I’ll help clean it up.”
“How?” James’s look is weary. The question could be rude, but it’s not. I understand what his face is saying: What exactly can you do without Will ratting you out to the police and turning you in? The police aren’t going to believe you over him.
As if the very mention of him has summoned him into our sacred circle, like a whisky-soaked Beetlejuice, James’s phone pings.
Time was once that his work notifications would have been on silent when we were together, but I guess people change.
He flips the phone over and unlocks it. I watch as his face falls.
I don’t want to ask but am too anxious a person not to. “What is it?”
“Nothing. Nothing for you to worry about anyway,” he says, smile repainted onto his face. The words are delivered as sweet and smooth as honey, but they also feel like a lie.
“James.”
His eyebrows pinch together in concern for a split second and then settle back into their rightful place.
“James, for god’s sake, just show me.”
He slides his phone across the table, screen lit up. His emails are open, one particular email filling the screen. From Will. The words are what I’ve long feared were inevitable:
Look. You know this is the last thing I wanted to do, but I’m in trouble again.
I don’t want to hear “I told you so,” but I need another ￡15K.
I know it’s a lot to ask, but I know you can afford it, and it’s the least you could do after I’ve been so good in keeping Nat’s secret.
I promise this is the last time. I swear.
“Fuck. So much for having a few months until we need to worry about him,” I say. James reaches for my hand again, and this time, I clutch it like a lifeline. “I mean, we definitely don’t have the money. Where are we supposed to find fifteen grand?”
“If I hadn’t sunk all my liquid assets into the company, it’d be easy, but after buying Will out…I imagine he wants me to steal it from the business. Or take out a loan.”
“You can’t afford to do that.”
If James steals that money, he’ll be putting himself at huge risk for the mistakes I’ve made.
And if he gets a loan, then we’ll be even further away from affording the help we need to have a family.
But if we don’t pay, don’t give Will what he wants, one day soon, we’ll arrive home to find police on our doorstep with questions I can’t answer.
Those ugly thoughts spring free from their constraints.
A plan seems to be forming in my mind. I need to be better.
I want to be better. But if I play things right, I have a chance to remove a huge problem, and allow James and me space to work on our marriage, our future family.
After all, I want a family more than anything.
A family with James. Despite everything, he’s still here, fighting my corner.
I don’t think I’ll ever find a love like this again.
There’s only one problem—it’s going to be painfully obvious what’s happened if Will suddenly dies.
Although I do seem to be criminally good at making murder look like an accident.