Chapter 36 Lexie
Denial is a lovely state of being and I’m happily living in it.
The wedding is six weeks away. Six weeks.
Even though I’m stressing at the timeline and pretending I’m not worried that they were supposed to call it off over a month ago, even though I try not to cry when I’m alone anticipating the worst, the sense of what’s coming sits heavy in my bones.
Annabelle gets back from Italy next week.
While it seems like we’re all on the same page about the wedding, she’s still a silent invisible entity that generates a little fear.
When she returns, I’m sure things will be different.
Right now, Theo’s at my place every night, or I’m at his.
We’re together as much as humanly possible.
But when Annabelle comes home, he’ll want to see her.
Of course he will. What if being around her makes him wonder if he made a mistake?
What if Annabelle looks at him and decides she doesn’t want to cancel the wedding after all? And then…
I cut the thought off before it can sink its teeth in, just as Michael pulls up outside Theo’s place in Tribeca.
The elevator takes me up to the penthouse, but when I let myself in, he’s not there. Weird. He should be home by now. I dig my phone from my purse and type a message.
Lexie: Are you almost home?
I decide to grab a protein shake from his refrigerator. I drink it in front of the beautiful skyline.
And I wait a little more.
Theo: No
The brisk response jars me. Maybe he’s with a patient and just tapped his smartwatch. I can’t keep dissecting every message, every pause, every imagined slight—or I’ll drive myself crazy.
I take a shower, slip into pajamas even though it’s not even seven p.m., and watch some TV on the couch, when I finally hear the click of the lock opening. I toss my phone and go to greet him, but the second he walks through the door, my chest sinks.
His eyes are dark—not the sexy kind, not the ravenous kind. Just dark. His mouth is a flat line, nostrils flaring slightly. It throws me, because since we got together, every time he sees me, it’s like I’m his favorite thing in the world and he can’t believe his luck.
He throws his phone on the counter, followed by his keys, and dumps his backpack onto a chair, storming past me to grab a water from the fridge.
I hesitate, unsure what to do. Is he mad at me?
Did I do something? “Are you okay?” I ask, pressing my palm against his forearm.
He’s strong—he’s so fucking strong—but tonight, the veins popping from under his skin are tighter than I’ve ever felt.
When he doesn’t answer, I drop my hand. “Do you want to go grab a drink? I can get dressed.”
The muscle in his jaw stretches. “No.”
No matter how much I want to straighten my back and lift my chin to show him that his bad mood doesn’t affect me, I can’t. My shoulders slump. “Did I do something wrong?” I hate the slight insecurity in my voice, but it’s too late to take it back.
His eyes soften. “No… you didn’t do anything.”
The sliver of relief is not enough to counteract the internal raging storm. “Do you want dinner?”
“No.”
A long silence passes as he keeps his arms crossed. Like he wants to keep his distance from me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, searching his eyes, but they’re filled with so much anger that I step back.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Okay… We’ve never really had a fight. Sure, technically we fought a lot in the beginning, and we still have the occasional heated debate over who gets control of the remote (me) or whether I’m allowed to wear a certain dress without becoming an accessory to whatever crime he commits to every man who sees me in it (him). But nothing like this.
“Okay,” I say, calmly, ignoring the way my stomach feels like someone’s squeezing the insides. “Well, you need to eat something. Maybe we could just order takeout and watch a movie or something.”
He ignores me, and anxiety starts to turn into anger. What the hell? Between our four p.m. text saying he couldn’t wait to rush home to see me and his behavior now, something has happened.
“Theo?”
“No.” He grabs his backpack from the chair and swipes his keys from the counter. “I can’t be here. I need to go.”
What? Where the hell does he need to go? Fuck him. I can’t even imagine what he’d say to me if I pulled this on him and I’m not the one walking around fake-engaged. I fold my arms tight against my chest, the movement a barrier of protection. “What the hell did I do?”
“It’s not you. It’s… fuck…” He rubs a hand down his chin. “I just… I need to… I can’t be around you right now.”
“You can’t be around me? Are you serious?” Theo has never made me feel anything but a queen. But right now, he’s making me feel worthless. I stare at him, trying to read his eyes, but they’re scattered and angry and I’m over it. “Fine. Then don’t.”
I storm down the hall toward the guest bedroom, never more thankful in my life that he has two rooms. I’d stomp all the way to my apartment if I could, but Michael’s off for the night and I do not feel like getting an Uber in my pajamas.
Even though he’s barely acknowledged me since he got home, I still find myself listening for the front door—waiting for him to leave. Instead, he exhales loudly before I hear his footsteps following me.
“Wait,” he says.
I swing open the guest bedroom door. “No. You don’t get to do this.
You don’t get to fucking ignore me, then tell me you have somewhere to go and can’t be around me and then ask me to wait.
I’m sleeping in here tonight, and do not for a second think of waking me up from wherever you magically have to be.
” I want to hurt him the way he’s hurting me.
It’s small, maybe event petty—sleeping in the guest bedroom is nothing.
His room is right next door, the wall between us paper-thin.
But we’ve never not gone a night without sharing a bed, and he needs to feel that absence.
“But—”
I slam the door before he says another word, climb into bed, and try hard not to cry.
But before I reach the pillow to muffle, I break into sobs.