Chapter 17 #2
He's retelling our engagement story, for the fiftieth time, like I wasn't there, but I let him because he loves it. Thinks it's every woman's dream, and he isn't wrong there.
The ring on my finger? A whisper of Jackie O's love. Similar style, same carat. I don't wear it most days, just my wedding band—partly because I'm scared I'd be the first person in the world to break diamonds, and mostly because I don't want my finger to be chopped off.
Richard holds my hand across the table, admiring the ridiculously huge emerald.
"Do you remember? I had this stone commissioned for you after our third date. Third," he emphasizes, brushing his finger over mine. "I didn't want you to settle for less."
I smile and nod.
"Did you know we were going to end up married?" he asks.
I wonder if I should tell him the truth, then decide I can give him at least that. "Actually, I thought we would just date long-distance, and eventually forget about each other."
Richard shakes his head adamantly. "No. I was still in the taxi from your book-signing when I decided you were going to be my wife.
I think I knew it from the first moment I saw you in that bookstore.
Your smile was something else. Then I heard your voice, laughing at some stupid joke, and I was just done for you. "
My eyes turn glassy with emotions. Good and bad kinds.
"I just had to wait a whole month for Seattle weather to cooperate," he jokes.
I manage to smile. "Yeah, I remember that." Like it was yesterday...
We were on his two-story yacht, surrounded by his friends and fizzling Dom Pérignon. Late at night, twenty couples dancing, cheek on cheek, and there I was, holding Richard's steady hand as he swayed me right in the middle, under that huge crystal chandelier, so everyone could see us.
Etta James crooned At Last, Richard spun me around in my black sequin dress and when I turned, he was down on one knee, starry-eyed. He held my hand like I had easily overdone his lifetime of the most precious, refined things.
I felt so special, so in love with him. But the cruel twist was that I looked at his hand and saw Ben.
I wondered how I would feel if it was him on his knees. If I smiled more.
Then I blinked it away, forcing myself to see Richard again—all the things he did to prove he loved me—and I said yes.
My fork hovers over a fig and I realize I can't swallow. Every bite lodges somewhere between memory and conscience because he's holding my hand and has no idea what I've done.
Richard's eyes flick on the menu as if he's considering dessert—which I know he isn't because he eats them only from me when he knows they're low-cal—and I watch him.
This is my husband. I should tell him what happened. Maybe we could work through it. It will never happen again. Could he really not forgive me?
He catches me looking and lifts his head, so I give him a quick smile. He smiles back briefly.
And then he drops it: "I saw Ben today."
The lights behind my eyes go out instantly.
"You saw Ben? When? Why?" My voice sounds casual if casual meant clenching a live wire between my teeth.
Why would he see him? Why?
Richard goes back to grazing his finger under the prices like he actually cares for them.
"Tiramisu... Panna Cotta..." he mutters under his breath.
I narrow my eyes. He's either torturing me or he's too good at pressing my buttons without having a clue.
I tilt my face so he notices me and try not to sound too pushy. "Why did you see him?"
"My elbow," he says finally. "It's been better, but Ben texted me two days ago that he could push me in. I thought, why not."
I blink. My pulse trips. "What? He has your number?"
"I got his. A while ago. After we met them in the lobby."
"How did you get it?"
Richard throws me a smirk, like I insulted his IQ. "Nice guy. Good doctor. Made sure I got every test. It's nothing serious."
"Huh." I sound dumb. Must look dumb. "That's good to know. Just be careful."
Finally, he closes the damn menu and smiles faintly. "Yeah. We're playing tennis with them Sunday."
"Excuse me—what?!" My nails dig into the wooden chair. "What?"
Richard shrugs, perfectly calm. "What do you mean what? We don't have plans. Thought it'd be fun."
"You should've asked me," I snap, as sharp as I meant it.
He narrows his eyes, offended. "What's that tone? Is there a problem?"
Yes, Richard. There's a fucking problem. I kissed the man who's going to serve balls at us.
A major problem.
A problem with capital letters, italics, underlines.
"No. No problem," I say, swallowing the scream, but still glaring.
He pulls up his sleeve and shows me the compression around his arm. "He gave me this expensive compressor for free, had two tennis rackets in there, so we started talking about how we always wanted to go. You wanted to start going again, no?"
"I mean, yeah but—"
"He's apparently very good at it."
He's not "very good." He's pro-level. Competed for the state when he was young and mostly won, but I keep that to myself.
"He invited us and it would've been rude to decline at that point," Richard explains in that lazy tone.
I nod, lips tight. "Right. Always rude to decline."
Richard tilts his head and his eyes narrow. "Did something happen between you and him in the desert?"
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I lean back in the chair, hoping my face isn't red alert. My nails dig so hard into the chair that I think I might gouge the wood.
"What do you mean?"
He studies me for a beat, his face nearly surgical. "I mean, did he do or say something to you? Did he offend you?"
Oh. Okay. Take a breather.
"No, of course not. He's a good guy. Plus, he came a day before I left, so I barely saw him.
I told you—we both changed, so we don't really connect anymore.
I just want you to start asking me before you make plans, that's all.
" I take a deep breath, force a shaken smile.
"We'll go. You wanted to try it. It'll be fun. "
Before I can see his expression or faint right here, I'm already pushing my chair back, excusing myself for the bathroom, and slipping through ten tables that all seem to be having a wonderful time while I'm sprinting through my panic.
Bathroom. Head over the sink. Staring into it like it could tell me I'm less despicable than I am.
I'm lying to my husband, lying about Ben, lying becoming second nature. That's one step from hell. This feels like hell.
When did the world stop making sense?
Here I am, obsessing over the kiss, and Ben's planning drills with my husband after being so angry every time I mention him? Can he ever stop being a revelation?
I take one more breath and try to calm down.
You know what? Maybe this is good. If Richard suspected anything, he wouldn't plan a double date, right? And the kiss obviously didn't mean that much to Ben?
Goddamn it, I don't like that idea at all.
But I have to force myself to be okay with it.
This way I can apologize in person. We'll laugh, roll our eyes, sweep the whole thing under some metaphorical rug, and start over. Again.
Delusional? Absolutely. Immature? Definitely. But that imaginary conversation where Ben forgives me is the only thing keeping me tethered before the day.
?
On Sunday, when we show up at the club, Richard and I look like we waltzed out of some old money drama.
Correction: he does.
Further correction: he is.
"My mom was right. You're such a golden boy. Gilded down to your veins," I say, mostly to watch him soften for me, and maybe to remind myself that we're fine.
He obliges, leaning in to plant a peck on my lips.
He's in a white polo, soft blue sweater knotted over his shoulders like it's a chilly autumn day, not eighty degrees in the shade.
Me? I've gone full rebellion chic.
Had to sit through Richard's monologue in the car about how my outfit is "contextually appropriate because, and only because, we're going together."
This white fitted tank and ass-skimming skirt are proof I work for my body and I'm not afraid to show it.
No, it's not for Ben, not to make him regret ghosting me—I'm over it. Way, way over it.
The girl at the front desk clocks us—well, clocks Richard—and pulls that smile reserved for trust funds. How they can always smell it is beyond my knowledge.
"Hello." He gives her his classic charm smile. "Lawsons. Meeting the Bellinis."
And just like that my mind goes haywire. Seeing Ben after what happened, and in front of Richard, might be the most self-sabotaging thing I've done so far.
"Of course." The woman walks around the counter, looking at Richard like he's a painting she isn't allowed to touch. "The court is right this way, Mr. Lawson."
Richard glides through the lobby while I try to not trail behind him.
Ironically, my old-money husband doesn't know how to play tennis. I'm mediocre at best, but Ben and I used to rally after school, twice a week training where he barked orders at me while I pretended I didn't like it, and after we split, I kept practicing.
The heat outside hits like a physical force again, even the palm trees sagging.
The green clay court sprawls ahead, bordered by manicured hedges, sprinkles hissing for working overtime.
Lisa is already there, across the court. Ugh.
High-pitched, perched under a giant umbrella, she waves when she registers us, singsongs: "Hellooo!
" Then back to her guy. She's still mid-monologue when we reach her.
"Water. Lots of ice. No plastic straws. I'm eco, you know.
And the shade... Could we get more shade? Something inventive you can do?"
The waiter desperately tries not to frown. "I'm afraid it's already at maximum, miss."
She exhales, long and tragic. "Really? These courts should be covered in heat like this. "
He can't help it, looks at her like she's an idiot. "Well, we do have indoor courts."
"No, fine," she snaps dryly. She mists herself with some pink bottle. "Just the drinks. For now."