Page 8 of Everything We Give

I rub her back as I listen to her, hating she felt like she couldn’t come to me, and hating James more for making her feel this way.

“I don’t like how emotional he makes me. It reminds me how I used to be with him.”

“And how was that?”

“Naive and immature. Too trusting when I should have been asking questions.”

I adored the trusting Aimee and I love the woman she used to be. I especially love the woman she’s become while we’ve been married. Headstrong, confident, and passionate. The best mother I could ask for our daughter, which is important to me.

But stupid me, that isn’t what I latch on to. I’m still fixated on my earlier assumption that Aimee realized she still loves James ... in the way that matters. Despite what she just told me, I can’t get the possibility out of my head.

“How often have you seen him since June?”

“What?” Aimee frowns, her expression off-kilter. I arch a brow, waiting for an answer. She tugs at the hem of her blouse. “Just today.”

“How much time did you spend together? When did he call you?”

“Jesus, Ian.”

Ice rattles in a martini shaker. “Drinks, anyone?” Nadia calls from the kitchen.

“No,” I answer without taking my eyes from Aimee’s.

“Yes.” Aimee sends me a cool look. “I told you, I don’t want to talk about it here.” She strides to the kitchen bar counter.

I fork my fingers through my hair and exhale harshly out my nose. I trail Aimee to the kitchen.

Nadia slides a dirty martini toward her. Aimee removes the olive-laden toothpick and downs the cocktail. She then reaches for my glass when she notices I’m not drinking it.

“I guess you were thirsty,” Nadia quips, toasting with her own glass. “Salute.” She tastes the cocktail, smacks her lips twice, and glances over her shoulder at the microwave clock. “I can order in Thai.”

“No, thanks. We have dinner plans.” I lean a hand on the counter, hook my other in my front pocket, and watch Aimee consume my martini, thankfully at a slower pace than her first drink.

“I’m not hungry.” She sets down the stemware.

“All right, then.” Nadia drags out the words. She rattles the shaker. “More cocktails?”

Aimee shakes her head and empties the glass. “I’m ready to go home.” She picks up her purse where she left it on the couch and goes to stand by the front door.

I sigh. Looks like we’re leaving.

“I’ll drive.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and call up my patience. I’m going to need it tonight before I say something else stupid that pisses off Aimee, especially when I should be doing the opposite: offering her a shoulder to cry on and an ear to listen. “Thanks,” I tell Nadia. “I’ll bring her by tomorrow to get her car.”

“No rush.” She lightly grasps my wrist. “You’re a good husband, Ian. She needs you right now. She’s hurting.”

We both are. “I know. And thanks.”

I join Aimee at the door. So much for celebrating my best news ever. “Let’s go home.”

We take the elevator down to the parking garage standing side by side without touching. I want to be angry with her. I want to rail at James for contacting my wife again. But all I feel is empathy for him, which surprises and irritates me.

I understand how James feels, the confusion and disorientation, the need to reach out to Aimee, the love of his life. I get how he doesn’t have a sense of lost time, and that, to him, it feels like he left Aimee yesterday.

I spent my childhood amid a similar bedlam. It wasn’t a fun place to be.

We reach the parking garage and I fumble the keys from my pocket. They drop on the ground.

“We need to swing by my parents’ and get Caty,” Aimee says, since she doesn’t know about the arrangement I made with Catherine, and it no longer matters. We don’t seem to be going out to dinner.

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