“You’re still my Annie. ”
“No. I’m my Annie. ”
“Come back to me, Annie. Please. Give us another chance. You can’t throw it all—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence. I didn’t throw anything away. You did, with your selfishness and your lies and your wandering dick. And now you’ve figured out that little Suzannah wants to be your lover, not your wife and your mother and your doormat and you come running back to me. The woman who’ll take your shit with a smile and give you a safe place where nothing is expected of you and everything goes your way. ”
He was stunned by her language and her vehemence. “Annie—”
“I’ve met someone. ”
His mouth dropped open. “A man?”
“Yes, Blake. A man. ”
He slid back over to his seat. He took a long gulp of his lukewarm coffee, trying to get over the shock of her statement. A man? Annie with another man?
The silver-haired man with the sad blue eyes.
Why was it that in the months they’d been apart, he had never considered such a thing? He’d always pictured her as quiet, dependable Annie, mothering everyone, smiling and laughing and trying her hand at some god-awful craft or another. He’d pictured her sewing and decorating and pining. Goddamn it—mostly, he’d pictured her pining away for him, inconsolable. He looked up at her. “Did you . . . sleep with him?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Blake. ”
She had. Annie—his Annie, his wife—had slept with another man. Blake felt a surge of raw, animal anger, a fury he’d never known before in his life. He wanted to throw his head back and scream out his rage, but instead, he sat very still, his hands fisted in tight, painful blocks beneath the table. Now things were different, very different, and he had to proceed with the greatest caution.
“An affair,” he said quietly, wincing at the sound of the word and the images it brought to mind. Annie, writhing in pleasure, kissing another pair of lips, touching another man’s body. He pushed the horrible thoughts away. “I guess you did it to get back at me. ”
She laughed. “Not everything revo
lves around you. ”
“So . . . ” What in the hell did you say at a time like this? He wanted to put his fist through a plate-glass window, and instead he had to sit here like a gentleman, pretending it didn’t hurt like hell, pretending she hadn’t just ripped his heart out and stomped on it. “I guess . . . ” He shrugged. “I guess we can forgive each other. ”
“I don’t want your forgiveness. ”
He flinched. They were the same words he’d thrown at her a few months ago, and they hurt. Sweet Jesus, they hurt.
“I’m sorry, Annie,” he said quietly, looking up at her. For the first time, he truly understood what he’d done to her. In his arrogant selfishness, he hadn’t really thought about what he’d put her through. He’d sugar-coated his behavior in the vocabulary of the nineties: I need my space; there’s no reason to stay together if you’re not happy; you’ll be better o f without me; we’ve grown apart. And he’d believed all of it. Now, he saw his mistake. The words were meaningless excuses for a man who didn’t think the rules applied to him. He’d acted as if their marriage were an inconvenient encumbrance, an irritating lien on property you wanted to develop. The words that truly mattered—love, honor, and cherish, till death do us part—he’d slapped aside as if they meant nothing.
He felt the first wave of honest-to-God shame he’d ever experienced. “I never knew how it could hurt. But Annie, I love you—you can believe that. And I’m going to go on loving you for the rest of my life. No matter what you do or where you go or what you say, I’ll always be here, waiting for your forgiveness. Loving you. ”
He saw a flash of pain in her eyes, and saw the way her mouth relaxed. For a heartbeat, she weakened, and like any great lawyer, he knew how to pounce on opportunity. He touched her cheek gently, forcing her to look at him. “You think I don’t really love you, that I’m just the same selfish prick I always was, and that I want you because you make my life easier . . . but that’s not it, Annie. You make my life complete. ”
“Blake—”
“Remember the old days? When we lived in that beach house in Laguna Niguel? I couldn’t wait to get home from work to see you. And you always met me at the door—remember that?—you’d yank the door open and throw yourself into my arms. And how about when Natalie was born, when I crawled into that narrow hospital bed with you and spent the night—until that bony old nurse came and threw me out? And how about that time on the beach, when you and I made sand castles at midnight and drank champagne and dreamed of the house we would someday own. You said you wanted a blue and white bedroom, and I said you could paint it purple if you wanted, as long as you promised to be in my bed forever. . . . ”
She was crying now. “Don’t, Blake, please . . . ”
“Don’t what? Don’t remind you of who we are and how long we’ve been together?” He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the tears from her face. “We’re a family. I should have seen that before, but I was blind and stupid and selfish, and I took so much for granted. ” His voice fell to a throaty whisper and he stared at her through a blur of his own tears. “I love you, Annie. You have to believe me. ”
She rubbed her eyes and looked away from him, sniffling quietly. “I believed you for twenty years, Blake. It’s not so easy anymore. ”
“I never thought it would be. ”
“Yes, you did. ”
He smiled ruefully. “You’re right. I thought you’d hear my apology and launch yourself into my arms and we’d ride off into the sunset together. ” He sighed. “So, where do we go from here?”