Page 10 of Rebound

What the hell? I was flirting withShannon? Shannon, Harper’s daughter, who is both Libby’s mom and five months pregnant? Who, as far as I know, is happily married? Never once have I looked at her in that way. And I barely spoke to the damn woman tonight.

I bite my tongue and take a deep breath, letting my brain catch up before my mouth opens. This is a required skill set when spending time with Amber. My wife is a complicated woman and an absolute mistress of misdirection. She has a knack for making people believe what she wants them to believe, for convincing them her ideas were theirs, for deflecting away from anything that might not suit her. She wants me to react to this. She wants me to focus on her unfair accusation. But why?

She’s genuinely upset, more upset than I have seen her in many years, but it’s not about Shannon. It can’t be about Shannon. Me snapping back at her and escalating this fight would be counterproductive and possibly exactly what she’s hoping for. If we end up screaming at each other, I won’t probe any deeper. I won’t ask again about her tears, and she won’t be forced to admit they even exist. But if it isn’t about Shannon, what is it about?

The answer comes to me in a flash, and I feel like I’ve been sucker punched. She’s not upset about Shannon; she’s upset about Libby. If I had to guess, I’d say she saw me playing with the little girl. She saw me laughing and cuddling her, and in Amber’s mind, she saw me regretting every single thing about my life since we got married. That’s the way her brain works, whether it’s logical or not. She can’t have children, and I love children—therefore, I must be miserable with her.

Fuck. Honestly, sometimes I am miserable with her. But it doesn’t have a goddamn thing to do with kids. It’s because I wake up every single day wondering if I’m going to die of frostbite.

“I wasn’t flirting with Shannon,” I say quietly, taking all the challenge out of my voice, out of my body language, giving her nothing to fight with. “But I’m sorry if you thought I was. I’m sorry if I upset you. Forgive me. Let’s walk home, like you said. Let’s cool down. Maybe we can stop somewhere for a drink, just the two of us—coffee at the Moonlight Diner or a late-night cocktail, like we used to?”

“You really think a strawberry daiquiri is going to fix this?” she asks, her eyes still shining with tears. She lets them spill down her cheeks and doesn’t try to wipe them away. It’s so unlike her that I feel a jolt of fear shoot through me. It’s physical, a tingle of dread running up and down my spine like nerve pain.

“Well, a daiquiri never hurts.” I reach out and stroke the side of her face. She leans into my palm, her cheek soft against my skin, and for a moment I have hope. “Amber, sweetheart, we’re both soaked through. Let’s go to a bar, or even better, go home. You must be tired.”

She gazes up at me, and her eyes are so big and luminous that I swear I can see the city backdrop reflected in them.

“I am tired, Elijah, yes. I’m exhausted, and I know you must be too. Why do we keep doing this? Why do we keep dancing this dance? Why don’t we just… let go?”

My nostrils flare and my hand drops to my side. “What do you mean?”

Her sigh speaks of bone-deep weariness. “I mean I think I’m done, Elijah. I want a divorce.”

ChapterSix

ELIJAH

We’re back home and in our perfectly decorated living room. This house has several rooms for entertaining where Amber and I have hosted dinners, charity events, and parties over the years. It’s also big enough that we have our own space, allowing us to coexist in distant harmony.

Tonight, though, we’re sitting together—sitting together as we discuss how to be apart. She’s on one couch, I’m on another, and I fucking hate everything about this whole setup. I want to drag her into my arms and kiss her so hard she can’t breathe. I want to tell her how much I love her, how much I want this marriage to work. How much I need her.

“So, are you thinking a separation first or straight to divorce?” I say instead in a calm, steady voice, needing to keep a grip on my emotions because I can tell that she’s barely holding it together. She’s curled up with her legs underneath her, dressed in her silk pajamas with a blanket over her lap, her hair towel-dried and shaggy against her shoulders. She looks nothing like the glamorous creature who emerged from this same house earlier today, but I love this version as much as that one. We were soaked through by the time we got back, and we immediately went to change. Logs are burning in the fireplace, the drapes are closed tight, and the lights are down low. Despite the size of the room, it’s cozy and intimate and warm. The very opposite of our conversation.

She bites her lip and swipes at her eyes. Her makeup has been removed, but a random smear of mascara has clung on, straggling over her left cheekbone in a forlorn black smudge. She looks frail, and I know she’ll hate that. She stays silent, sipping from the mug of hot cocoa between her hands. She made me one as well, which is a rarity—how ironic that it takes discussing a divorce to bring out such kindness. I added a glug of good Scotch to mine—I have a feeling I’m going to need it.

“You’re doing your fake-calm voice, Elijah,” she finally says, gazing at me over the haze of steam. “Or maybe it’s not fake, I don’t know. Maybe this is all a relief to you. You finally get rid of me but you don’t have to be the bad guy who dumps his barren wife. The coldhearted bitch who made your life a living hell. I can be the villain of the piece, as usual.”

The words are harsh; she’s lashing out because she’s hurting. This will all be easier for her if it turns into a fight because it will validate her choice.

“I’m not calm,” I reply. “I might sound it, but I’m not. I’m all kinds of things right now, but calm isn’t one of them. I’m pissed. I’m shocked. And I’m… Fuck, Amber, I’m sad, okay? I’m just fucking sad. I never wanted this, so don’t act like I did. I’m not the one asking for a divorce, am I?”

“Not in words, no—but in actions, yes. You’ve been asking for one for years in your own way. The amount of time you spend at the office. Moving into your own bedroom. Your devotion to your family, who hates my guts.”

I keep my face impassive as I examine those comments. I want to argue with her, tell her it’s all bullshit, but there are enough grains of truth in her words to stop me. It’s more complicated than she presents, but I can’t deny any of those accusations. Maybe I can at least try to explain them though.

“Amber, I hear you. I do work too much, I know, but in my defense, you seem to prefer it that way. If I’m hanging around you too often, it seems to make things worse. The bedroom… well. Yeah. I’m only human, and there was only so much I could take. Having you lie there next to me but completely untouchable? Turning your back on me every night as though you couldn’t bear to look at me? I had to end that because it hurt, Amber. It fucking hurt. It still does.”

Each sentence gets louder than the last, and the final one seems to ring in the air for several long seconds as she stares at me, her eyes wide. There’s a little tremor in her hands, and I take a deep breath. Shouting won’t help either of us.

“As for my family… Look, is there any point rehashing this? You don’t get along. It’s not the first time that’s happened in the history of the world, is it? I still don’t understand it, but it is what it is. Do you want me to choose between you? Do you want me to cut them out of my life? Would that make you happy?”

Would I do that? She’s never outright asked me to, but would I? There was a time she loved being a part of my family. Somewhere along the way that changed, and I have no idea why. And I never fucking asked her. I just accepted it, letting the gap between them grow wider until it was too big to bridge.

It’s an impossible choice. I love Amber, but I love my family too. We share the same blood; we’re bonded by the same memories. I run the company my dad built, and I’m the oldest of the clan, the big brother and now the doting uncle. Could I turn my back on all of that? I’ve always hoped things would change. That something would eventually give. It’s been tough, being stuck in the middle, but I was okay with that if it meant keeping both halves of my world happy. Except happy isn’t a word I would associate with Amber. Or me, for that matter. We’ve both been fucking miserable for years, and I’m not sure there’s a way to change it. Shit. Maybe she’s right. Why am I even fighting this? Is it only because I’m stubborn—because I don’t like to fail? Or do I really think there’s hope for us?

“I would never ask you to make that choice,” she says, her voice small. “I’d never ask, but even if I did, I’m not sure you’d choose me. I’m not a fool, Elijah. I’m aware of how difficult I am and how little I have to offer. I’m aware of how hard all of this has been for you. So maybe it’s time to stop trying. We’re both exhausted. Drained. And it’s not too late to salvage some happiness from life. You’re young enough to find someone else, someone who can give you what you want.”

“And what would that be, Amber?” I ask, knowing exactly what she’s talking about, but I need to hear her say it. I don’t know why. It will hurt us both to discuss this, but perhaps we need to. Perhaps we should have discussed it years ago.

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