Page 69 of Best Offer Wins
He rubs my thigh and clicks on the TV.
“Actually”—I gently take the remote and mute the volume—“there’s something I need to ask you about.”
He goes rigid beside me. Good.Let him fear the worst.
Once I was done reading through the burner phone, before Ian got back from his run on Sunday, I deleted the most recent text (since he surely would’ve noticed it had been opened—and not by him). Then I planted the phone just under where we’re sitting now, shoved all the way back between the wall and one of the sofa’s rear legs. By yesterday morning, it was gone. It was well-hidden enough that once Ian found it, he could believe he’d missed it on a first pass. But I bet the nagging suspicion that I might’ve seen it has never fully left him.
He leans away, so he has a clearer view of my face. Worry pinches his forehead.
“Okay… what is it?”
“Well, it’s been over a week now since we paused the house hunt, and I’m sure you remember thatthehouse hits the market the day after tomorrow.”
He sighs, but his posture relaxes. He’s relieved that this is all I want to discuss.
“I knowI’min a much better place since we stopped obsessing about it,” I say, “and I thinkwe’rein a better place, too, don’t you agree?”
He nods, no doubt internally rejoicing at my cluelessness.
“You said you wanted your wife back, and you have her. I promise, I’m right here, and I’m never going anywhere again.”
He lowers his eyes to his hand, still on my thigh. Have I made him feel guilty?
“So,” I continue, “I hope you can trust that I’m coming from amuch healthier, much more rational place when I say I still think we should make an offer on it.”
His face snaps back up. “Margo…”
“I know, I know. I get that it’s a very, very long shot. But I just want to give it a go the right way. Write a normal, honest offer—no games, no lying—and let the cards fall where they may.”
“Margo, you know they’ll never sell it to us.”
“You’re probably right.” I take his hand in both of mine. “I mean, you’re almost definitely right. But I have to see this through. I have to at least try, or I’ll always wonder. I just felt such a connection to that place.”
I unscrew the lid the teeniest bit, letting out just enough of the heartbreak to make my eyes water.
“I could really see us there, putting our baby to sleep in Penny’s adorable bedroom. And a few years down the road, you teaching her—or him—how to throw a baseball in the backyard.”
“But this is exactly what worries me,” Ian says, brushing a tear off my cheekbone with his thumb, his touch roiling my stomach. “I hate hearing you get your hopes up like this, when we both know what the outcome will be.”
“My hopes are not up, I promise. Just let me try, Ian. We have nothing to lose. It’s not like they can humiliate us any more than they already have.”
“I don’t think so, Margo.”
The patience is retreating from his voice.
“We can write a letter with the offer, apologizing for what we did—for whatIdid.”
“My answer is no.”
He pulls his hand from mine.
I slouch away from him and screw the lid back on tight. I open up a different, much larger jar. Anger pours out of this one, coursing through me like blood. I take a deep breath to steady myself.
I didn’t want the conversation to go like this, but I knew it probably would. I knew that saving the phone and the affair for this moment could be useful.
I stare at him, keeping my face blank. “So, where is it then?” I ask flatly.
He narrows his eyes in confusion. “Where’s what?”
