Chapter Nineteen
CHAPTER NINETEEN
My eyes fill with tears.
It’s been five days since my lunch with Caprice. Five days since a single page on a website sent my marriage crashing down around me, since I got on this rollercoaster of emotion, shooting between hope and revenge. So far, I haven’t really given myself the space or permission to truly cry, but I can’t now either—I’m still not ready for that.
I take a deep, trembling breath and blink them away. “Don’t give me that bullshit.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Oh, absolutely, MountainMan3 .”
He leans in, voice shaking even as he reaches for me. “Come on, Mrs. Richie?—”
“Don’t you mean LonelyGirl8? ” I swat his hand away, my face absolutely burning. “How dare you call me Mrs.”
Heat rises in Anton’s eyes. His gaze dips to the delicate space between my breasts, then to where my traitorous nipples challenge the sheer fabric. He licks his lips. “Because you’re my wife. And you being here is the best thing that could’ve happened tonight.”
I cross my arm in front of me, but he grabs my hand and pushes me back into the pillows, descending on me with a kiss so deep it’s like winter melting into spring. I can’t escape the musky, earthy scent of him, his desire growing thick once more against my hip. Unfortunately, I also can’t shake the image of him here in this hotel room with who knows how many other women.
I pull back and shove him away with all my strength, which isn’t much of a match for his, but he stops immediately. “Don’t touch me,” I say.
He recoils like I’ve slapped him, and for a moment he just sits there, staring at his own hands. I wonder if he actually feels ashamed. Will he brave the truth, or is he coming up with another lie? Finally, he blinks and pulls back. And as he does, all the heat from moments ago melts away. A chill settles over the room.
“Okay,” he says in a ragged voice. “If that’s what you want.”
I fold my arms over my chest in an effort to regain my confidence. “How many others have there been? Did you bring them all here?”
“You’re the first,” he says. “The only.”
A lump forms in my throat. That’s what I’ve thought since college—that our first times were together, and there’s never been anyone else. I swallow hard. “Why should I believe that?”
He shrugs, raising his gaze to my face, eyes not straying anywhere on my body this time. When he speaks again, his words come out cool. “Is it going to matter if you do?” He rises from the bed, crosses to the chair, and slips on his boxer briefs.
I hesitate. “Wh-what are you doing?”
“Getting dressed.” His voice is flat and emotionless.
“Why?”
He pauses at this admittedly ridiculous question, then continues gathering his things. I don’t know why that came out of my mouth, why my stomach tightens more with every article of clothing he finds. Why I suddenly wish I’d said and done everything leading up to this moment differently.
“I’ll move my stuff out this weekend,” he says. “We can start the paperwork before that. I see no reason to make this uglier than it already is.”
He takes his shirt off the chair, slips it on, and turns away as he does the buttons. I stare at his back, stiff and straight, at the well-carved curve of his ass, and try to imagine what he’d take from our house. What things are his? Which are mine? How could he even tell?
He pulls on his pants, tucking in his shirt while I sit on the bed, now very underdressed for the somber occasion. I pull a blanket across my lap, envisioning myself getting up for work next week, alone in our home. Not texting him during the day with silly GIFs or asking what he’s doing for lunch. And then I think of Heartthrob. Who will keep him? Is there shared custody for dogs? I picture his eager face rushing in after work, looking for Anton to play, and finding the house empty. Dear God, it breaks my heart to think about our poor disappointed dog.
As Anton locates his shoes, nearly dressed, a sense of dread pools in my gut. Maybe it’s guilt, which is stupid. Or a healthy dose of remorse. Maybe it’s what he said—about only wanting me. But I’m overcome with this horrible feeling, like once he walks out the door, that will be it. I’ll never see him again.
And even though I came here with every intention of ending our relationship, suddenly I’m no longer sure that’s what I want.
He picks up his keys. Duffle bag. Reaches for the door handle.
“ Wait —” I say, rising from the bed. The blanket falls away, landing around my ankles.
Anton stops, hand on the knob. Lingering an eternity, presumably waiting for me to say something else, to do something.
“Why?” he finally asks when I don’t speak. He doesn’t turn to look at me. But there’s something in his tone that wasn’t there a second ago. Regret? Maybe disgust. I falter, unsure if it’s meant for me or for himself.
“I—” I stammer, trying to figure out what I want to say. “I don’t want you to move out.”
He lets go of the knob and turns to stare at me. Goose flesh rises on my arms. “ Why? ”
I open my mouth, but I’m still having trouble understanding myself.
He gestures to me, the wig on the floor, the entire hotel room. “If you don’t want to be rid of me, Lydia, what was the point of all this?”
I press my lips together. It’s a legitimate question. But I don’t know the answer anymore. I was so sure of myself as I lay in wait tonight, driven by hurt and betrayal. Ready to catch my no-good, cheating husband in a salacious act. So how come, now that I’ve pulled it off, I’m second-guessing? Why, instead of feeling glorious, is a voice inside me screaming not to let him go?
You are all I’ve ever wanted.
Do I really believe that? Or am I just afraid?
In a shaky voice, I whisper, “Have you really never”—I swallow past the burning in my throat—“been with anyone else?”
His jaw tightens, but his chin dips in a nearly imperceptible nod.
I drop my gaze, trying not to shiver as I stare at my hands. “Then why did you come here tonight?”
There’s a long silence. In which I become too aware of everything in the room. The tear in the carpet by the closet. The drip of the bathroom faucet. The forced air blowing cool under the curtain. The way he’s dressed and I’m not. Like we aren’t a married couple and this is some other kind of transaction.
He takes a shallow breath. “Lydia, it’s been?—”
“Ten years .” I gesture between us, trying to emphasize the length of our relationship as the reason we ought to try harder, but my voice comes out so small it seems to punctuate the opposite.
“Yeah.” Anton nods, his voice raw. “And I’m lonely as fuck.”
I open my mouth to protest. That’s ridiculous. We’re together all the time when we’re not both at work. It’s not like we live separate lives. We’re home every night, in the same bed, and we just attended the Wallace’s party—though, of course, we both know how that ended. But I close my mouth because deep inside, I know he isn’t talking about socializing.
I look down at my breasts, wrapped in lace and ribbon like matching gifts. “You’re talking about our sex life.”
He lets out a short breath that almost sounds like a laugh. But when he returns my gaze, his face is stern.
“Maybe it’s something we could work on.” I try to make it sound like I mean this, but my throat is so dry. “I...I’m just not sure something that lasted ten years should end in one night.”
He levels me with a look that says we both know it has not been just a night, and I have to swallow hard around the lump in my throat. “ Lydia,” he says, his voice quieter, tired. “What do you think we could work on that hasn’t changed over the last decade?”
“I don’t know.” I bite my trembling lip. “Maybe...I can do better.”
I meant to say we , but that’s the way it comes out.
His eyes widen. “ I’m the one who put myself on a fucking cheating app.”
“You sure did.” My voice breaks as I acknowledge this, but ever since I saw his stupid profile, I haven’t been able to keep from thinking I could’ve done things differently. Maybe if I hadn’t worked quite so much, or I’d gone with him to the hot springs.
My mind screams, but I’ve been busy.
While my heart whispers, I’ve been avoiding him.
A knot forms inside my chest.
“Look...” Anton wipes his hand over his face. “I’m sorry. This was an enormous mistake. I’ll do things however you want.” He raises his head to look at me. “But I can’t go on the way it’s been.”
His words ring through the air, vibrating into my body. He’s right, of course. Neither of us can. I just wish I had some kind of guide telling me what to do next. Is he a cheater, or isn’t he? Can you move forward with someone after they’ve broken your heart, or is this really the end?
I nod. “I . . . I need to do some thinking.”
“Me too.” He looks around with a slightly dazed expression, one I’m probably also wearing. Like we each had ideas about what would take place in this hotel room—only this? This definitely wasn’t one of them.
I sink to the bed, pulling the sheet across my lap.
And since neither of us seems to have anything else to say, he turns back to the door. “I’ll see you at home.”