Part 3 (1/2)
”I'm...fine.”
I went through the foyer of our apartment and down the hall toward my office to put down my briefcase. I'd do some more work as soon as I'd gotten something to eat.
Clare looked up from her e-reader when I came into the living room, blinking as if she were surprised to see me. As if I hadn't come into this room in exactly the same way, into exactly the same silence, every day for the last three years.
Some nights she was home, and others she was out with her friends, but the silence never changed.
For a second, I was tempted to tell her about the little boy, about my bizarre reaction to his touch and the way he looked at me. But we never talked about kids or our childhoods...or anything much at all.
”How was your day?” I asked, setting my jacket across the back of a chair and loosening my tie.
She stretched like a cat in the sun. ”Fine. Yours?”
”The same.” Our mandatory eight words spoken, I went to make myself dinner.
I opened up the fridge and pulled out eggs and some vegetables. Great, nothing but the Camembert Clare loved. I looked toward the living room but decided against it. Our housekeeper ordered the groceries to be delivered every Wednesday, I think. I could live without cheese for a few days.
I wrote a quick note to Helen to make sure she included it on the shopping list and then thought of the little boy again. My virtual a.s.sistant would get a good laugh from that story. Staring at my phone, I tapped my fingers on the granite. It could wait until tomorrow.
”Can you stop that? I have a headache.”
I looked up and saw Clare leaning on the center island. That was unexpected. ”Did you take something for it?”
”Yeah, but it hasn't kicked in yet.” She nodded toward the ingredients I'd gathered. ”If that's for omelets, would you make me one, too?”
”Of course. You're not going out tonight?”
Clare had lots of friends-some with as much money as she had and others she'd bought on the cheap. All of whom enjoyed filling up their very nice, very empty lives with shopping and dinners out.
”Not with this headache,” she said. ”Plus, I thought it might be nice to stay here with you.” She sat down and watched me chop, whisk, and saute. I tried not to wonder why she was hovering.
”That'd be nice.”
”We haven't talked in a while.” She came around the island, standing right next to me, her shoulder brus.h.i.+ng mine. ”Can I help?”
”Sure,” I said, turning around to grab a knife and cutting board for the scallions. ”Here.”
She chopped slowly, in between each cut looking up at me with an expression I didn't understand. We lived under the same roof, attended the same events, she even held my arm occasionally, but there was nothing between us. A life of deceit does that to people.
A single lie kept us together...and kept us apart.
I'd accepted it a long time ago. Was it normal? No. But it was our normal, and I didn't have the time or energy for anything different.
There was nothing wrong with Clare. No reason to hate her, resent her, or even be annoyed by her. She was kind, intelligent, and she was certainly generous with her trust fund. When she was surrounded by people, she laughed and cracked jokes, making sure those around her were happy.
I just wasn't one of those people.
She was practically perfect in every way. A Mary Poppins who couldn't sing or do magic. Or cook. Or clean. And thousands of men would kill to have the chance to treat her like a queen. I'd tried. I'd tried right up until the moment I knew she didn't want me to try, because all it did was cause her disappointment to grow. Because my mere presence was a reminder of a life she didn't want. Because she could never have the life she did want...with the person she wanted.
She set the knife down and switched off the burner under the pan.
”The eggs are still runny, Clare.”
When she turned to me, I finally recognized the expression. It had taken a while because it had been so long since I'd seen it, at least directed at me. l.u.s.t. Pure and simple, let's-get-it-on l.u.s.t. I stepped back, confused. She stepped forward.
”I want you,” she said quietly. Such a direct statement seemed even more foreign than the expression.
”Do you?” I couldn't even bring myself to hope anymore.
She laughed. ”Of course.”
”Really?”
Her smile faded as she walked back around the counter and sat down. ”You've been different lately.” How could she tell? We barely spoke. Barely saw each other.
”In what way?” I looked at the pan that was already cooling. If I turned the burner back on, it would only char the bottom of the omelet. It was past salvaging.
”Is there someone else, Hayden?”
”No,” I said, annoyed. Then I sighed. ”No, there's no one else. Nothing has changed.”
”Well, something has changed. You're different.”
Was I? I hadn't noticed, other than a few times when I'd caught myself smiling. Yeah, I guess I was different. ”I feel...I feel awake, that's all.” Because I'd had more interesting conversations in the last few days with my new a.s.sistant than I'd had in the last few years with Clare. It had nothing to do with romance-if she'd been a man, I would feel the same. Mostly.
”Are you going to leave me?” my wife asked.
”What?” Where was this coming from? ”No, of course not. I'm staying right here for as long as you want me.” I laughed at the irony. ”But you don't want me, do you?”
”Of cour-”
I raised my hand to stop her. ”I didn't cheat. But I'm waking up now. And I'm thinking about some things I never did before. You. Me. This.” I gestured to all of the trappings that trapped us. ”I never questioned it. Or thought to want anything else.”
Twenty-nine years, and I could probably count the number of times I'd been happy. All that practice had left me numb to everything-good or bad. That's how you deal with chronic pain-refuse to feel anything else until the grief becomes all you have, all you know.
Until the highs and lows of everyday life constrict into a flat line.
”Am I not enough for you?” she asked.
I sighed again. ”How many lovers do you have now, Clare? Just the one, or are there more than that these days?”
She jolted back in her seat.