Page 29 of Shame

“I have forgotten she ever existed. You kicked me out, Grace. Remember? I don’t live with you anymore. This is the extent of my life, and I still want you. Only you. I’ve fucked up, but I’m still here. Whenever you’re ready,ifyou’re ever ready, I want you. Just tell me how.”

14

Luke

I don’t seeGrace again for four days. I’ve started following her online, so I can see from her Instagram stories that the countdown is on to her art show. She’s going back and forth from the studio to the gallery.

Then, out of the blue, she texts me.

Grace: I need a favour.

Luke: Anything.

Grace: You said you didn’t want your name attached to the show. I want you to do the exact opposite of that.

Luke: Okay. Just tell me what or where to go.

She knocks on my door ten minutes later. She’s wearing a dress today, with tall boots and a rare full face of makeup.

I hope my expression reflects my awe at her beauty, but it probably doesn’t, because I’ve failed at showing her how much I love the way she looks at every turn.

Stepping aside, I gesture for her to enter my lonely bachelor pad. “Do you want to come in?”

“I’m on my way to the gallery,” she says in a rush. “But we’re having trouble getting someone fromThe Starto cover the show, I think because of the erotic nature of it, maybe.” She presses her lips together like she’s going to say more, then changes the subject. “So I want you to pull whatever strings you can to leverage our connection. ‘Wife of a Bay Street firm holds first show at a Toronto gallery’ might be a better angle for a story.”

“You want me to call the paper? Who would I call?”

“A business reporter you know?”

“I don’t, really. We have a media manager at work—”

“Then use them,” she snaps, and there’s that flash of anger again.

“Don’t you have connections?” I ask, which is entirely the wrong thing.

She stalks to the couch and flings herself onto it, crossing her legs. “Did it ever occur to you that Caitlyn might look at you—the long hours, zero recognition of your wife in public, no social media connection—and think, hey, maybe that’s one un-fucking-happy marriage?”

I blink, slowly, then shake my head. “No.”

“That wasn’t a part of why you didn’t want to celebrate what I do?”

“I— I don’t think it was conscious, Grace. I do want to celebrate—”

“So now what’s your excuse now? Why are you looking me in the face when I’m asking you for help, and telling me I should do it myself? Don’t you think I’ve tried my connections? It’s not the same, Luke. I’m a commercial artist with a following on the internet. That means nothing to the Toronto establishment.”

I exhale roughly. “Jesus, Grace.”

“What? Jesus, Grace, why do you have to be so rough on the poor, innocent man who only banged his lawyer for a while instead of taking care of things at home?”

Scrubbing my hand over my face, I fight back the protest that wants to roar out of me. I feel every muscle in my face tense up and then release. My mouth goes tight and I see red, but then it fades.

Another exhale, this one soft and long and sad.

And she watches me, her expression shifting to match.

We keep going through these fights, like rounds in a boxing match, and they’re exhausting. I shrug. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say, I’ll talk the show up on Twitter. I’ll tag the right people and use my Forest Hill name to get you some press. Say, I’ll pose for a picture for you whenThe Starcomes to cover opening night, because you’re going to make a phone call or two and getThe Starto come to opening night.”

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