Page 39 of Thrones We Steal

“I assumed my thoughts on your—” He pauses. “—suggestion, would be a foregone conclusion.” Tight ropes in his arms strain under his rolled shirtsleeves.

“It’s not all cloak and dagger these days,” I say. “We could make it work.”

He spins around to face me. “Do you think so little of me that you assume I would be happy to play second fiddle to another man?”

“Of course not.”

“And yet you propose this preposterous arrangement, assuming I’d be thrilled.”

“I am trying,” I say, “to find a way to keep my world from completely imploding. This is the only thing I can think of!”

“Your mistake was thinking I’d consider being your mistress. I’m supposed to be your husband, but for some reason, you’ve taken that option off the table!”

The slap of his words reverberates through my frame.

I dab at the wine-and-vinegar riddled tablecloth and duck my head to hide my brimming eyes. “My mistake was thinking you loved me enough to do anything it took to stay together.”

“You’re the one tearing us apart.”

I am losing my grip on my tears. Where do we go from here?

“I still have another day before I need to give them my answer,” I say. “What if we talk again tomorrow?”

“You seem perfectly capable of deciding on your own.” He moves his hands to his narrow hips, hands that I love, that have cradled my face so many times. “Once you walk out that door, don’t bother coming back.”

13

“Anxieties” - The Regrettes

If I was a better person, I wouldn’t have suggested that Beck and I start an affair. If I was a better fiancée, I wouldn’t have considered breaking off our engagement. If I was a better citizen, I wouldn’t be waltzing back and forth over my decision.

I should know what to do.

And I should have anticipated Beck’s anger.

He’s the Chandler to my Monica, and life without him doesn’t feel like a life at all. Is it really so farcical to suggest that we might be able to find a small amount of happiness in spite of the circumstances?

A faint glow emanates from the library when I get home and I go in, eager for anything that will remind me of my dad, remind me that there are more important things at stake here than what I want. Someone has lit a fire, and it crackles and hisses. The mellow aroma of burning pine fills the room. God, I will miss this room when we leave.

Is that it then? Have I made my decision subconsciously?

Has there ever been a decision to make?

I stand in front of the blaze and allow its gentle warmth to saturate my bones, trying to erase a cold I’m not sure will ever leave. I hold out my hands in an attempt to thaw their icy depths, and Beck’s ring dances in the light, the flames reflecting in the two carat diamond.

It’s become a fixture on my finger, one I never thought I’d take off again after he slid it on last fall. He saved up for nearly a year; had enlisted the help of both of our families, a photographer, and a cellist; had designed the perfect opportunity to ask me those four words I dreamed of hearing since I was young.

Will you marry me?

The whole holiday was exquisite. Strolling through Galleria Borghese. Exploring the Colosseum and the Pantheon. Indulging in plate after plate of pasta and an endless supply of wine. And finally, culminating in front of the Trevi Fountain on our last night. As the strains of music surrounded us in a haze of happiness, he dropped to one knee, and I promised him a future.

A future I yanked away almost as quickly. Am I as heartless and cruel as he thinks I am?

I slip the ring from my finger and allow myself one more admiring glance before dropping it into my pocket.

“You’re going to do it then?”

I spin around to find Bea sitting in the corner, deep in the shadows of an armchair.

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