11. Chapter Eleven #3
Harrison's mouth opens, then closes. I can see him searching for the right response, the management face flickering on before something else takes over, something confused and guilty.
"I didn't...I didn't even notice," he says, and the admission seems to horrify him more than anything else I've said tonight. "She used to call me that. Years ago. I guess I just...didn't register it."
"That's worse," I say quietly. "If you'd noticed and told her to stop, I'd be angry but I'd understand. But you didn't even hear it. Because when she uses it, it doesn't sound wrong to you. It sounds normal. Like a name that still belongs in your life."
He looks away, his jaw working. I can tell he wants to argue, to explain, but there's nothing to say. I'm right, and we both know it.
"She doesn't get to call you that," I say. "Not anymore. Not at my table, not in my company, not in my marriage."
"She won't," he says, his voice low and certain. "I'll make sure of it."
"Then explain the photo album," I say.
His brow creases. "What photo album?"
"The shared one on your phone. The one she was posting to during your birthday trip to the Hudson Valley.
" I keep my voice level, though my pulse is hammering.
"Pictures of the two of you together. Before me, yes, but also after.
After we started dating. After we were married.
Trips to author conferences, dinners where she's right there at your side. "
Harrison's face goes still. Not the management stillness I've come to dread. He opens his mouth, closes it, then runs both hands through his hair.
"I forgot that was even on there," he says quietly. "It's from years ago. I never…Inés, I didn't keep those photos because I was pining for her. I just...never deleted them. I never go into that folder."
"That's the problem," I say, and my voice cracks despite my best effort.
"You didn't keep them on purpose. You just never thought to remove them.
Because it never occurred to you that they might hurt me, because you never thought about what it would feel like to be the woman lying next to you, scrolling through pictures of you and your ex, looking happy in ways you and I don't anymore. "
He stares at me, and I can see when it happens, the way his jaw tightens and his eyes drop to his hands. He has no defense.
"You're right," he says thickly. "I should have deleted them. I should have...I don't know. I should have noticed. But I swear to you, Inés, those photos don't mean anything. They're just...leftovers. From a life I don't want."
I want to believe him. The awful truth is, I think I do believe him, at least the part about the photos being an oversight rather than a keepsake. But the fact that he didn't think to delete them, that it never crossed his mind, tells me everything about how much he's taken me for granted.
"Delete them," I say. "Tonight. All of them."
He nods without hesitation. "I will. I'll do it right now if you want."
"Not now. Later. When you're home. And when you do, I want you to actually think about what it means that they were there for nine years and you never once considered how I'd feel."
He swallows hard. "I will."
"What about the future?" I ask quietly, the question hanging between us like a challenge. "If we keep going like this...will there be room for me? Or will she always come first? Will you come first?"
He reaches out and takes my hand then, his grip firm but gentle. "You'll always come first," he says fiercely. "Always. I swear it."
It would be amazing to believe him, wouldn't it? God, I want to.
But as an editor, you learn that more often than not, words are easy to say but hard to live by. Actions are what really matter in the end. Anyone can write words on paper or speak them aloud; not everyone follows through with what they promise.
"I need time," I tell him, pulling my hand back but keeping it close to his. "Time to see if you can really follow through with this. Because I don't think I can handle being let down again."
Sometimes, Harrison hesitates or tries to argue with me. But this time, he nods immediately.
"I get it," he says softly. "Take all the time you need." And then, almost shyly, he adds, "Just don't forget that I love you, okay? Because I do. Even if I fuck up sometimes."
I can't help but smile at that; a curse and something vulnerable. It feels more real than anything he's said to me in months.
"I won't forget," I promise quietly. "But you need to remember too: actions over words, yeah?"
He nods again, more seriously this time. "I will." He looks at me with those eyes that used to make my whole world stop. "I swear."
After he leaves, I pick up my violin again and start playing. The notes are low and mournful, maybe more fit for a cello. They fill the room and make my heart ache a little less. The music carries me through the evening, a reminder of who I am beyond being Harrison's wife.
But perhaps there is room for both of those things now that our world may be changing for the better. We'll see, I suppose.
And that thought carries me to sleep.