2. The Prettier Version
Chapter two
The Prettier Version
Iwas slicing a lemon when I heard his key in the door.
The knife came down clean through the rind and hit the board, a small, hard knock against the wood.
I’d been at it a while. A neat row of yellow rounds fanned out beside the cutting board, far more lemon than any meal required.
I kept slicing anyway. The rhythm of it kept my hands from doing anything else.
I had the whole afternoon to get ready for this.
Six hours since the cabana, since the tub, since I drove home with both hands shaking on the wheel.
I’d used the time well. I’d put the chicken in.
I had answered his late-afternoon text—Running late, dinner at home?
—with a bright, clueless smiley face. That was exactly what the old Maeve would have happily sent.
Then I’d spent ten minutes practicing my expression in the hall mirror until the reflection gave away absolutely nothing at all.
The hardest part had been deciding not to scream at him the second he walked in. The urge to do it was nearly unbearable. I craved the violent release of throwing the lemons at his head. I fantasized about telling him I’d seen them, that I knew the whole filthy truth.
But I’d made a decision already, and I was sticking to it. I’d indulge him, play along with his little game. And then… Somehow, I’d get my revenge. I wasn’t sure how, not exactly, but I’d figure it out.
“Something smells good.” Elliott came in loosening his tie, dropping his keys in the bowl by the door, the same as every night. He’d showered at some point. Not at the club, or he’d have caught me. At his office? Maybe he’d fucked Bella again in between meetings.
No, don’t think about that. Slow hands. Soft face. Let him run his little play.
“I’m making roast chicken,” I said. “It’ll be a while yet.”
“Take your time.” He poured himself two fingers of scotch and leaned against the counter, tracking my movements. “You’re glowing tonight.”
I hadn’t done a single thing to earn the compliment.
I was in the same dress I’d worn all day, the one I’d put on that morning, hoping he’d notice.
He hadn’t, then. He noticed now, because the ‘script’ called for it.
If a man is going to butter up his wife for a favor, he needs her to feel pretty first.
“Thank you,” I said and gave him the small, pleased smile he was fishing for.
He took a slow sip of his drink. Here it came. His posture shifted as he gathered himself to ask.
“Maeve, can we talk? Sit down a minute.”
“I’m in the middle of dinner.”
“It can wait.” He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and gestured at it, gently, like he was inviting me into a conversation rather than a trap. “Please. This is important.”
Let him think it’s working. Sit when he asks. Look a little nervous.
I set the knife down. I crossed to the chair, slow with the weight I’d been carrying for weeks, and lowered myself into it carefully with one hand under the bump. He stayed standing. Of course he did. He needed the psychological advantage of towering over me.
“You’ve seemed distant,” he started.
That was a good opening line. I almost admired it. Make her think she’s the one who’s been distant. How clever of you, Elliott.
“Have I?” I asked, biting my lower lip.
“A little. I do get it. The pregnancy is a lot, your body’s changing, your hormones are all over the place.” He shot me a compassionate glance, as if he truly understood exactly what I was going through. Prick. “But it doesn’t have to be a problem.”
I smiled widely at him, playing my part, playing dumb. “Thank you, Elliott. I’m so glad you feel that way. I promise I’ll do better.”
The lie felt sickening to say, but it worked wonders.
“About that…” he murmured, his voice dropping into a careful rhythm. “I’ve been doing a lot of reading. A lot of thinking about us, about what kind of father I plan to be.”
“What kind of father is that?”
“A present one. A calm one.” He crouched down in front of my chair, so his gaze was level with my stomach, his hand resting on my knee.
His eyes went soft and earnest, the devastatingly open expression I used to take for sincerity.
“And I can’t be that if I’m carrying around resentment.
If I feel trapped. Maeve, I love you. But people aren’t built for one person forever.
That’s not romantic, it’s just biology.”
There it is.
I blinked at him slowly, as if the words made absolutely no sense. “I don’t think I understand what you’re saying.”
“I’m saying I think we should open our marriage,” he replied. “Ethically. Honestly. Not sneaking around, not lying. With rules, with respect. So I can blow off a little steam and come home to you and the baby with a full tank instead of an empty one.”
The smell of lemon stung my nose. I focused on it. The bitter scent kept me grounded, a sharp distraction from the anger threatening to break through.
“You are asking my permission to sleep with other women,” I said.
“I am trying to give us room to breathe.” He winced, putting on the soft pain of a ‘misunderstood man’, playing the part perfectly. “See, this is what I mean. You go straight to the ugliest version of it.”
I made myself keep playing dumb, fighting the overwhelming urge to snap. “Help me understand the prettier version,” I forced out.
“I’m talking about something bigger than sex, Maeve. I’m talking about not building up resentment. About me not coming to hate the walls of this house. That’s what kills marriages. Not openness. Resentment.”
I almost couldn’t believe my ears. “So this is for my benefit,” I murmured.
“It poisons everything. I’ve watched it happen to my parents, to half the guys at work.” He gave me a patronizing smile, and I understood he’d rehearsed this part most of all.
“You’ve thought about this a lot,” I said.
“For us. For all of us.” He nodded at my belly like he was advocating for the baby’s interests.
“I refuse to wake up in five years, stare at you across the breakfast table, and feel utterly trapped. A resentful father is worse than an honest one. I’d rather do the hard thing now than lie to all three of us for the rest of our lives. ”
Leave her out of your mouth, I thought and kept my face soft.
It was a genuinely good speech. That was the awful part. If I hadn’t been folded in a bathtub that afternoon, listening to him plan this exact conversation, I might have believed it. A man could mean this, if I didn’t know better.
“God, Maeve, do you know how many men in my position would just cheat?” He spread his hands, putting on a show of helpless morality. “I’m trying to respect you enough to tell you the truth.”
‘The truth’. He crouched there in our kitchen, freshly showered, telling me about honesty, barely six hours after I’d watched that woman’s smear-proof lipstick rub off on his skin.
I could have stood up and told him everything.
But nothing had changed since the cabana.
Maybe I’d have the satisfaction of his shock today, but after that, he’d win the rest of the fight.
He’d spin an elaborate tale where I played the ‘hysterical pregnant woman’ who simply imagined things.
He’d talk his way sideways into being the victim.
He was believable in everything he did. That was what made him so good at his job.
No. I wanted far more than a screaming match. I needed him to voluntarily hand over the weapon he didn’t even realize he was wielding.
“This is a lot,” I said and let my voice wobble.
“I know. I know it is.” He squeezed my knee, encouraged now, sensing the give. “Take whatever time you need. But I really feel like this could save us, Maeve. Make us stronger. A lot of couples who do this say it brings them closer.”
“You’ve talked to couples who do this?”
“I’ve read about them,” he replied. He didn’t falter, not for a second. “There’s a whole community. It’s more common than you’d think.”
I lowered my gaze to his hand resting gently on my knee. The gold wedding ring I had slid onto his finger. The expensive watch I had bought for him, the exact silver dial I had stared at through a gap in the cabana door while he finished on another woman’s face.
“Okay,” I whispered. “It sounds like you’ve given it a lot of thought, so… I’m willing to try.”
He froze, his breath catching, completely thrown by the quick surrender. “Really?”
I raised my chin, forcing a watery, nervous smile as though I were talking myself into a terrifying leap of faith. “Of course. If it will make you happy. If it will keep us a functioning family. I refuse to lose you, Elliott.”
The relief on his face was obscene. It surfaced so fast and so completely that for a second he forgot to hide it.
And I saw exactly how little he’d ever thought of me.
He’d braced for tears, for a fight, for weeks of work.
He’d gotten a yes in under ten minutes. In his head he was already gone, already texting her, already free.
“You won’t lose me.” He stood, pulled me up out of the chair, wrapped me in his arms. I allowed the contact, enduring the weight of his embrace. I rested my cheek against his shoulder and stared at the row of lemon slices over it.
“God, I love you for this. Do you know how rare you are? Most women couldn’t handle this. You’re amazing.”
‘Amazing’. The exact word he’d used in the cabana, when Bella had been sucking his dick. I wondered if he repeated his speeches for her, too.
It didn’t matter. This was the important part, the part where I needed to take charge.
“You said there were rules,” I said into his shirt. “That this is all about respect.”
“That’s right, Maeve,” he replied, his voice so smug it hurt.
I pulled back so I could see his face. “It goes both ways.”