Page 67 of Come Back To Me

I shrug like I don’t care, but I do care. I’m superstitious about some things.

“Are you going to marry Petra?” It feels like a relief to get the words out, but I also feel exhausted after I say them. He stares at me like my question is absurd.

“Are you going to answer any of my questions?” I ask, irritated.

David finishes his glass of wine. He reaches for my untouched glass and pulls it toward him.

“Where are the papers?” I ask. “This is the third time you’ve found me to deliver divorce papers, and yet somehow you disappear with them every time.” I slam my fist on the table and the glasses wobble. David stares at me, not at all moved by my display, and suddenly I know.

“Oh my God,” I say. I point a finger at him, just one jab in his direction. “You’re doing this to torture me.”

I stand up. I feel like such a fool. He’s not looking at me now; he’s staring at my wineglass, which confirms my theory. I act on impulse, lunging toward him, reaching around his left side and patting him down. I search for the papers that I already know are not there. The bastard came empty-handed…again. I’m so caught up in what I’m doing that when I look up I realize he’s inches from my face, just staring at me. His hands are in the air, palms out like he’s offering a surrender. We glare at each other.

“Full cavity search too?” he asks, glibly.

He’s not smiling and neither am I. We’re so close that I can smell the wine on his breath, see that his eyes are too bloodshot to indicate that he just started drinking when I arrived. He’s drunk, he’s been drunk. I wonder how often he spends his days like this, or if it’s just me who brings it on. I straighten up, staring right into his miserable eyes, then I turn on my heel and walk out. I hear him call my name but I don’t stop. I walk and walk until I don’t know where I am, and I realize I’m crying, tears dripping down my chin and onto Celine’s silk shirt, mingling with the mascara. I left her jacket at the restaurant, which makes me cry harder. I’m such a failure. I deserve it, whatever torture he sees fit to punish me with, I deserve every second of it.

He comes to Celine’s flat later that night. I hear the knock but I don’t move. When she opens the door she speaks in French. I hear David reply in English. He asks to speak to Yara. My face is half submerged in bathwater. I blow bubbles out of my nose. Celine knocks on the bathroom door a moment later, her voice unsure.

“Yara,” she says. “Your David is here.”

I roll my eyes and hope he heard that. If someone has owned you once, can you ever be free?

“I’m in the bath,” I tell her.

“He says he urgently needs to speak with you.” Her voice is rising. She doesn’t like to be in the middle of conflict.

“All right,” I say, slowly. “He’s welcome to come in here if he wants to speak to me, but I just got in and he’s not ruining my bath like he’s already ruined my day,” I shout this so he can hear.

A minute later the little brass doorknob turns and David steps in. He keeps his eyes lowered as he closes the door behind him and sits on the lid of the toilet. His view is of the towel rack. On it one white towel hangs perfectly straight, sporting a black monogrammed C. Celine has an addiction to monograming things.

“The bath is filled with bubbles,” I say. “You can look at me.”

He swivels and then his eyes narrow.

I lied.

I shrug. “What is it that you want?” My words are clipped. I bend a knee, bring it out of the water, and he looks away, back at the towel.

“I’ve forgotten,” he says. “I came here for something but now I’ve forgotten why.”

I smile.

“Divorce,” I say. “You came because you want a divorce.”

“Do I?”

I reach for the glass of gin I carried in here with me and take a sip.

“Yes, so that you can marry that tattooed whore.” I try not to sound bitter when I say it.

He looks at me again, but this time I’ve turned away. I’m running water between my fingers.

“Don’t call her that,” he says.

It’s weak, his defense of the whore. Noted.

“I’ll call her whatever the fuck I want. She’s the whore my husband’s been sleeping with.” I say it slowly, deliberately. Let the words sink in.

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