Page 54 of Check the Halls
He nods, chewing his meal. His jaw makes a kind of clicking noise when he chews. I’ve always noticed it, but today it’s like nails on a chalkboard.
“Do you know what you’re wearing to dinner with the partners tomorrow night? You were kind of underdressed the last time, compared to the other wives.”
I shake my head at him, ignoring the dig at my wardrobe. “The firm’s dinner is next week.”
“No, it’s tomorrow. My admin confirmed it this afternoon.” His clipped tone grates on my last nerve.
I stand from the table and retrieve my bag from the front door. Grabbing my phone, I start searching as I walk back to the table. “No. The calendar invite you sent mesaid it’s next week.” I turn the email in question to him as proof.
“Huh,” he says, after a quick glance at my phone. “I must have sent you the wrong date. Regardless, it’s tomorrow.” He goes back to eating his dinner.
“I’m sorry, Derek. I can’t make dinner tomorrow. I have a meeting with one of our biggest donors.” These donors have given almost a million dollars to the foundation this year alone. Chanda asked me personally to meet with them. Ivan confided in me that Alyssa was positively fuming that she wasn’t given the task.
“Reschedule it.” He straightens in his chair, paying full attention to me for the first time tonight. Possibly for the first time in weeks.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t. The Hansens are only in town for a few days.” I don’t tell him that even if I could try to reschedule, I wouldn’t. This is a very important connection for the foundation and I’m really looking forward to discussing upcoming projects with them.
“For fuck’s sake, Madelyn.”
I bristle at his tone. Derek rarely swears, only when he’s really angry. His mother once told me that foul language is an indication of being low class. I remember thinking it was a fucked up point of view, but I kept that thought to myself.
“This is my career we’re talking about,” he says through gritted teeth. “It’s important.”
I square my shoulders, refusing to back down. “Are you implying that my career isn’t important?”
“Come on, Madelyn. Career?” he scoffs, pushing back from the table and stalking to the fridge. He grabs a lightbeer from it and twists the top off. “You’re a glorified party planner.”
I go stiffer than one of the Famous Five statues on Parliament Hill. I have a Master’s degree in Business Administration. I’ve worked tirelessly for my position at Love and Light Foundation and have a ten-year plan that will get me to my ultimate goal as Chief Operations Officer. Derek knows this. He’s known it since our first date, when I told him about my ambitions between sips of overpriced coffee. He’s always claimed to support me.
“Look,” he says, exhaling before taking a long pull of his beer, his shoulders dropping like he’s easing into something inevitable. “I wanted to wait until after your Christmas ball to bring this up, but we may as well do it now. I think you should resign after New Year’s.”
For a moment, I think I’ve misheard.
He couldn’t have shocked me more if he’d slapped me. A slap might have hurt less.
“You’re so stressed out all the time,” he continues, his voice adopting that patronizing, reasonable tone that makes my teeth grind. “We never see each other. And with the wedding coming up, I think it’s better this way. I make enough to support both of us. And besides, you’ll have to quit once we have kids anyway.”
I blink. My stomach plummets.
“Since when?” I ask, my voice too steady for the way my hands have curled into fists beneath the table.
He frowns. “What?”
“Since when would I have to quit my job to have children?”
Derek drags a hand down his face like I’m the one being exhausting. “How are you going to juggle work andbeing a mom, Madelyn? You’re barely juggling work as it is.”
My blood turns molten. My pulse pounds in my ears, each beat feeding the slow, creeping rage coiling in my gut. “Well,” I say, carefully, deliberately, “I was under the impression that we would be parenting together.”
He rolls his eyes. Really rolls them. Like I’ve just suggested we raise our hypothetical children in a traveling circus. I want to reach across the table, pluck those smug, dismissive eyes right out of his thick skull, and use them for batting practice.
“I know that’s what we discussed,” he says, waving a hand as if brushing away my words. “But things change. The reality is my career will be too demanding and time-consuming. There’s a reason my mother didn’t work.”
I meet his gaze and hold it. “I am nothing like your mother, Derek.”
He shrugs, as if it’s an unfortunate truth. “Well, maybe you should try to be.”
There are so many ways I could react. I could scream until my throat is raw. Hurl my soggy shawarma at his stupid face. Cry, rage, and demand to know if this has been his plan all along.
