Page 147 of What's Left of Us

It’s five minutes of silverware scraping ceramic when he breaks the silence. “Can I ask you something?”

I look up at him. “Of course you can.”

“Do you consider us friends?”

The question pinches my brows. “Friends?”

His chin dips.

It’s an odd question. “You’re my husband.”

Jaw grinding, he sets his fork down on his plate and takes a deep breath. “That isn’t what I asked, Georgia.”

His tone throws me off. “Are you upset right now?”

“I—” He cuts himself off, closing his eyes and rubbing them with the pads of his fingers as he blows out a breath. “If friendship is what you need, then I can be that for you.”

There’s a twinge of pain lingering in his tone that makes my appetite waver. “Where is this coming from, Lincoln?”

He pushes his plate away, as done with the short-lived meal as I am. “I want to be the person you go to when you need somebody. Not your father. Not Leani. Not Luca.”

Lips parting, I inhale a quiet breath.

“I know you talk to them,” he says, leaning back and meeting my eyes. “I know you go see them when I’m at work.”

I don’t say anything.

His head tilts. “We used to be in this together.”

“We still are.”

“Are we?” he questions. “Because it seems to me like you regret the choice you made by marrying me.”

Is that what he thinks? “That’s not true.”

“Then tell me why you’re going behind my back to see the very people you ran away from.”

Shoulders stiffening, I try not to let the accusatory words sink in too deep. After all, I’m not the only one who’s going behind people’s backs and lying about it. “I think you’re forgetting something important, Lincoln.”

His eyebrows go up.

“At the end of the day, it’s your bed I fall asleep in,” I point out, standing and pushing the chair back. Flashing him my hand, I add, “It’syourring I’m wearing. Not Luca’s. It’s you I said ‘I do’ to, not him. It’s you that I went home with when I was engaged. It’s you that I trusted enough to give me a life I wouldn’t have gotten if my father got his way.”

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his eyes briefly scan my ring before looking away.

If that’s not enough for him, I don’t know what will be. “Do you trust me at all?” I ask him.

My heart squeezes as his silence stretches.

I walk over to him, sit on his lap, and cup his face, forcing him to look me in the eye. “Do. You. Trust. Me?” I ask slower, feeling my hands shake with the anticipation of his answer.

But his remaining silence screams the truth.

The burn of tears prickles the backs of my eyes when he chooses not to say a word. “Then what more needs to be said?” I whisper defeatedly, starting to move off his lap.

He stops me.

His arm hooks around my waist and lifts me up and onto the edge of the table, then positions my legs so they’re parted in front of him.

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