Page 39 of I'm Not Done with You Yet

The questions stop abruptly, a surprised look fleeting across his face. “Are you okay?”

I hadn’t meant to say “stop” quite like that, with so much acidity in it.

“Geez, Jane. I thought you’d be in a good mood. I mean, it’s your first ever author event—”

“It’s not MY author event, it’s a bloody convention for all writers.” All writers except me, apparently. I struggle to restrain my temper. It’s not his fault that he doesn’t understand. It’s not his fault that he thinks I’m a big enough author to score a ticket to SusPens Con. He doesn’t know that I basically barged my way into the convention center with Ani’s help. Fuck, I’m a mess. And it’s not his fault that he doesn’t know any of it.

“Sorry,” I manage to push out. “I’ve just—it’s been a long day. I don’t like crowds, and the con was—heh, it was very crowded.”

Ted’s shoulders slump a little. “Aw, sweetie. You should’ve told me.” He reaches out and places a meaty hand on each of my shoulders, and I remind myself I mustn’t recoil, because that’s not how wives react when their husbands touch them. “Tell you what,” he says, lightly massaging my shoulders, “how about we have a nice night out? We’re in New York, let’s live it up a little, huh? A nice romantic meal, just you and me, how about that?”

The thought of it fills me with dread. A night out with Ted, dinner over candlelight; what the hell would we talk about toeach other? When we first dated, I made a huge amount of effort with him. I don’t remember why now, but I do recall those days, where I’d read up on the news in the daytime, or scour Twitter for the most amusing, most shocking pieces of news. I would actually jot them down in a little notebook so I wouldn’t forget them, and I would carry these news pieces, like little pieces of delicious candy in my pockets, where I would feed them to Ted over candlelit dinners.Did you know that scientists may have found the God particle—the Higgs boson?Fascinating.They uncovered a two-thousand-year-old mummy today, perfectly preserved.Wow, no way!I read an interesting article today about the widening wealth gap and why it happens.Gosh, you are so interesting, Jane.

I was so interesting because I gave a damn. I made an effort. I was never caught unprepared. I had to do it to cover up the fact that I am, in fact, without personality. All those news stories are only meant to paper over the bleak, empty hole where a personality should’ve been. I’ve read that this is something many sociopaths have—a lack of authenticity. We’re empty inside, a monster pretending to be human.

I don’t know when I stopped trying, when our dinners went from the two of us at the table, discussing physics and philosophy, to us talking about seeing Kimiko and her husband out walking their dog, to us struggling to even find anything worth saying. And finally, the death knell of dinnertime conversation—to us sitting in front of the TV, slurping our linguine without having to look at each other. I’m fine with that dinnertime arrangement; it’s a lot easier on me, not having to pretend to care about Kimiko and her dog or our other neighbor, Frances, and her two-year-old kid who has a penchant for climbing up trees and then jumping out of them. And so it’s very unfair for Ted tosuddenly demand the old Jane back, the Jane who had something to say. I need time to prepare, to bring that Jane back to the surface. And I don’t have the energy to do that.

And plus I can’t do that; I have dinner plans with Thalia.

“Actually,” I say in as casual a way as I can manage, “I can’t. I have to have dinner with—” My voice falters. If I say “a friend,” he’ll ask me who it is, and I don’t want to go into the whole thing. Oxford is mine, and mine only. He doesn’t have a right to it. “Toni. And my editor.”

His face lights up. “Oh, wow! That’s amazing. Wow, so they’re really going all out to woo you, huh?”

The bastard. He knows they’re not. I study him, looking for the glint of steel underneath the happy facade. He can’t be that clueless. Can he? “Um, yeah, I guess? I think it’s pretty standard, probably something they do for all their authors when they happen to be in town.”

“No, I don’t think so. They’re making an effort for you because they see your potential.”

He’s got to be doing it on purpose, rubbing my lie in my face. Yes, that’s it. He knows I’m lying and he’s pushing to see when I will break. Well, I won’t break. Two can play at that game.

“Would it be okay if I came along?” he says, and there it is. His final blow. “I want to see my wife being schmoozed up by her agent and editor.” He moves closer, until our faces are only inches apart, and gives me what he probably thinks is a seductive smile. “It’s kind of hot.”

Bile rushes up my throat, and I have to swallow it back down.No, Ted, it’s not hot in the least.“It’s a business dinner, not a social arrangement. It wouldn’t be appropriate. And anyway, you hate book news.”

He frowns. “But it’s not just any book news, it’syourbooknews.” My breath catches, and I hate him, in that moment I truly do hate him, my cruel, vindictive husband who knows damn well that there is no book news when it comes to me. I’m still struggling to come up with a third book, knowing at the back of my mind that neither Toni nor Harvest Publishing is that interested in getting more books from me. Writer’s block, Ted calls it, except I don’t feel like I’m writer enough to have writer’s block. And now that my second book has been out for months, everyone knows nothing’s going to happen. No news, no surprise book club picks, no celebrity live-tweeting it and getting their millions of followers to pick it up. It’s done, and I’m done, and we both know it.

It takes a whole lot of self-restraint to bite back the caustic retort burning its way up my throat. Instead, I say, “Tomorrow? Tomorrow morning, we can go for a nice breakfast.”

Ted sags, disappointment lining his face. When did we get old? His whole face looks gray, a detail that surprises me. It snuck up on us. I wonder if I’ve turned old without knowing it too; if he sees me and sees a “ma’am” instead of a young woman. “Sure, tomorrow.” He gives me a smile to show that he’s being generous—look how understanding I’m being, Jane; don’t I deserve at least a hand job?I turn away so I don’t have to keep looking at that expectant smile. “I’ll look up brunch places on Yelp.”

I nod. “Great.” Then I escape to the bathroom and start getting ready for tonight.

Skye Bar is a glitzy restaurant at the top of a boutique hotel. It’s very definitely outside of my comfort zone, but fortunately, I’d had the foresight to Google it beforehand, so I’ve come dressed for the occasion. I’m wearing my only nicedress—an LBD I splurged on years ago for this very moment, for when I do see Thalia and spend a night out with her. It’s as though I have always known that we’d end up meeting again, because the thought that we might not was simply unbearable. It’s an off-shoulder dress that calls out for a necklace, so I put on Ani’s necklace. Seems fitting, somehow. I hid the outfit under an understated coat so that Ted wouldn’t see how dressed up I am. Still, when I came out of the bathroom, he noticed the amount of makeup and said, “Wow, you went all out. You look nice.” He started walking toward me, but I quickly headed for the door.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll probably be back late, so...” I let the rest of the sentence hang in the air. I didn’t want to be the one who said, “Don’t wait up,” to my husband. That seemed a bit too aggressive, and he’d probably bring that up when we bickered down the road.

“Gotcha,” he said with another valiant smile. “Have fun. You’re gonna do great.”

Could he be any more patronizing? I didn’t bother looking back before leaving the room.

But never mind Ted. Who cares about that right now? Right now I’m in a swanky New York City restaurant and I’m about to be reunited with Thalia, and I look amazing; I know I do. The hostess gives me a once-over, nodding a little when she sees the necklace I’m wearing, then smiles at me. “Welcome to Skye. Do you have a reservation?”

I give her Thalia’s name and her smile widens. “Ah, Ms. Ashcroft! Yes, of course. Follow me.”

She leads me through the restaurant, and I try not to stare at my glamorous surroundings. Everyone here looks like they belong at some fashion show—the suits all bespoke and the dressesglittery and the jewelry ostentatious. She leads us to a table at the corner of the rooftop with a breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline, and there she is. Thalia. She looks like a star, a burst of light and energy so beautiful it’s blinding.

“Jane!” Thalia says, standing up and giving me a hug. I’m dizzy from the nearness of her. “So glad you made it.”

“Shall I bring you the usual wine, Ms. Ashcroft?” the hostess says to Thalia.

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