Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
GRAYSON
Ana is drunk. She’s sprawled over the couch like she’s been thrown across the room and dropped there. Her long limbs are folded awkwardly beneath her. There’s an empty bottle of wine on the coffee table and a glass tipped on its side on the rug. I doubt it’s her first bottle of the evening.
The woman I married was willowy and full of energy.
She was smart and witty and loved to laugh and did so often, tipping back her head, unaware or unbothered by those who turned to stare.
Ana used to be a woman who chased moments.
Midnight swims and spontaneous flights. New cities, new ideas, new versions of herself.
She talked to strangers like they were old friends and never worried about tomorrow.
But there was always that haunted look in her eyes when she stood still for too long.
Being with Ana was like standing on the edge of a beautiful, wild precipice. And I mistook vertigo for love.
The version of Ana in front of me is still beautiful, but it’s haunting now, stretched thin over fragility. I haven’t seen Ana in two years, and the change in her is hard to look at.
This is my fault.
Flic stands frozen two steps into the apartment, her expression shuttered as she stares at Ana. My wife’s pink dress is wrinkled, one strap slipping off her shoulder. There’s mascara smudged beneath her eyes. Her red hair, once thick and glossy, hangs limp around her shoulders. She’s a mess.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Flic, because what else can I say?
Flic asked me what happened five years ago.
She guessed something led to me returning to New York and changing my life.
The truth is—Ana happened. I’d planned to tell Flic everything tonight.
My marriage and the reason I can never be in another relationship.
But it’s too late to explain when my past is slouched on my couch, looking like she might throw up at any moment.
Without a word or so much as a glance in my direction, Flic strides down the hallway toward the spare bedroom.
I can imagine her throwing her clothes into a bag and walking out.
I don’t blame her, but it still hurts that it feels like I’ve ruined something between us.
I don’t know what that thing is. But whatever we were on our way to becoming, it’s gone now.
My mind flashes to the moment in the elevator.
The heat. The tension. The battle I lost with myself.
The moment I stopped pretending I didn’t want her.
How close we came to kissing. So close I can still feel the echo of her body pressed against mine.
Fuck, I’ve never wanted anything more than I wanted Flic in that moment, and now I’ll never get another chance.
Every instinct in me wants to chase after her, to explain and to beg her to stay, but I don’t.
Ana is my wife, and right now she needs me.
I move to sit casually on the opposite couch, giving Ana space.
The last thing I want is to spook her. Two years ago, she stumbled into my building and made a scene with the doorman, shouting to be let into her husband’s apartment.
She was drunk then. Out of money. Out of options.
I handled it badly, pushing too hard, trying to reason with her to get help.
She bolted before I could do anything that mattered.
After that, I told the doorman to always let her in.
No questions. I assumed she’d come back eventually.
“Ana,” I say carefully, keeping my tone gentle. “Where have you been?”
She looks up, blinking like it’s a struggle to focus her eyes on me. “Here and there,” she says lightly. “I spent some time in Canada. They’re so nice there. Have you been?” She lets out a little laugh. It’s girlish and sugary-sweet.
“It’s been two years, Ana. Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been about you?”
She pouts in a way I’m sure she thinks is Audrey Hepburn but feels closer to a sulking teen. “Don’t be a bore, Grayson.”
I bite back a sigh. I don’t know what path Ana’s life would’ve taken if she’d not mixed herself up with my family, but it doesn’t matter. She’s on this path because of me.
“Why are you here?” I ask. Because at the end of the day, that’s the only question that matters.
Her smile falters a little. “Life is very complicated for me right now, Gray,” she says softly. “Don’t be angry.”
Angry. The word almost makes me laugh. Angry was lying in a bed in a hotel in the Scottish Highlands on our wedding night, the glow of our elopement still warm around us.
The crushing moment Ana had picked up her phone to show me something and a message had flashed across the screen. Too fast to hide.
I never told you to marry him! Call me!
The message was from my father.
I confronted her and she broke down, told me the truth.
The start of our marriage was also its end.
It was like a veil being ripped away, and I saw clearly for the first time everything I’d tried to ignore.
Like the unexplained disappearances, the evasions, the drinking.
Always drinking. Always something to celebrate.
I force my mind back to the present.
“Have you spoken to your parents?” I ask.
Ana’s parents live an hour outside Philadelphia.
They’re a normal couple, from a normal neighborhood.
They attend church every Sunday. Her father, Vern, washes the car and her mother, Jenny, makes iced tea in their house with the pale blue shutters.
I only spoke to them after the wedding when Ana disappeared the first time.
I had a private investigator find out everything there was to know about Ana, including a number for her parents.
I called them to ask if they’d spoken to her.
It turns out, running away when things get hard is Ana’s default.
They were surprised to hear she was in Europe, but not surprised she was married and in trouble.
She shakes her head. “They don’t understand me.”
“They love you.”
“All they do is nag.” She sighs, head dropping back against the cushions.
“You need money?” I ask.
She turns her head and focuses her gaze on me. Her huge eyes look suddenly desperate, rimmed red and shining. For a second I think she’ll try to spin it, to charm or deflect the way she always used to. But she looks as tired of the performance as I am.
“The same as before?” she asks, not really a question.
She means the last time she was here when I was stupid enough to put money directly into her account.
It was for rehab. I watched her promise me—promise herself—she was ready to change and get help.
Instead, she skipped the facility entirely and booked a flight to Hawaii.
I lost track of her not long after that.
“Not this time,” I say firmly. “If you want money from me, Ana, you’ll need to complete a ninety-day rehab program.
I’ve got a room on hold for you at a treatment facility close to your parents.
They’ll visit you every week and report back to me that you’re still there and taking the program seriously. My jet can take you tomorrow morning.”
Her lips tremble, eyes watery. It isn’t the answer she wanted.
“If you complete the ninety days,” I continue before she can protest, “and you sign the divorce papers, then you’ll receive a final payout, which will be placed in a trust and managed by your parents to help you set up a new life.”
She stares at me, unblinking. I can see the argument forming in her thoughts.
The charm offensive she’s about to give me and all the reasons I should just give her the money.
I stand and cross the living room, disappearing into my study, opening the desk drawer where the paperwork has been waiting.
I had it drawn up after her last disappearance, wanting to be ready for the next time.
“This is the only offer on the table,” I say when I return a moment later. “One I’m under no obligation to give you. I’ve got plenty of evidence that you were being paid by my father. No court would grant you a penny.”
It’s true. But what I don’t tell Ana is that I could’ve filed for divorce at any point in the last five years.
All I’d had to do was file, show the court I’d tried to locate her, publish a notice somewhere she’d never see it, and wait.
But it felt wrong to go behind her back, even after what she did to me.
Because she is the victim in this. She is the pawn my father manipulated to get to me.
Yes, I want a divorce, but I never wanted Ana to feel I was abandoning her. I wanted her to come to me when she needed help. Exactly like she is now.
I place the contract and the divorce papers on the coffee table.
When I turn back, Flic is standing in the hallway.
She’s changed out of the dress into jeans and a fitted, deep-blue sweater that brings out the color of her eyes.
Her hair is pulled into one loose braid down her back.
I’m surprised to see she’s barefoot, and there’s no sign of a bag on her arm.
I stride across the room, and I’m by her side in seconds. “You’re staying?” The words tumble out in a rush of surprise and maybe a little bit of desperation I’m not ashamed to admit.
She shoots me a look in that scathing Flic way. “It’s not OK that I didn’t know you were married, Grayson, but whatever this is”—she nods toward the couch and Ana—“it’s bigger than me. And it’s pretty clear you need help right now. We’ll deal with us later.”
A tiny part of me clings to the word “us.” Up until the moment in the elevator, I didn’t cross a line, but there were plenty of times we danced right up to it, letting my touch linger too long, holding her gaze.
Plenty of moments where I opened up and still chose not to tell her about my past. I told myself it was because I didn’t want her to judge me or hate me.
Now I wonder if I was just being a coward.
Flic disappears into the kitchen without another word. I hear cupboards opening and then the fridge. The clink of glass. She returns a moment later carrying a glass of water. She places it on the table beside Ana.
“Hi, I’m Flic. I’m a friend of Grayson’s.”
Ana squints up at her, then lets out another light laugh. “More than a friend.” She pushes herself upright and nearly slides straight off the couch. “I saw you kissing.”
Flic doesn’t rise to it. “We didn’t kiss,” she says evenly. “We’re just friends. I can assure you, Grayson has been the perfect husband.”
Ana laughs again, louder this time. Then she leans forward and stage-whispers like I’m not in the room. “We’re not really husband and wife.”
Flic nods once, then takes a step back. “Would you like something to eat, Ana? Maybe some pasta?”
“Oh babe, I’m starved. How did you know?” Ana beams at her. “Send Grayson out.” She pats the cushion beside her. “You sit with me. Let’s have a glass of wine and become best friends.”
Flic’s smile remains polite. “I’ll make it. It’ll be quicker.”
She turns back toward the kitchen without looking at me. Yeah, she’s mad, and I don’t blame her. But she hasn’t left. Instead, she’s standing in my kitchen, cooking dinner for my wife. Helping me hold together a situation that’s already cracked wide open.