An Unlikely Bride (Lucas & Ava)

“We’re in counseling at the moment—her idea, because she knows I’m against divorce, but she isn’t really interested in reconciliation.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Eleven years, and it all came down to one thing.” His eyes slide toward a recent photo of him with his wife by the laptop. “A kid. Jay can operate on impossible tumors and save countless lives, but not having a child just…put a hole in what we have.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again, but I don’t think he hears.

“She says I make her feel inadequate, that being with me is painful because she feels like she can’t be enough for me. I adore her so much.”

“Have you considered using the therapy to tell her how you feel about her?”

He shrugs. “She’s determined to not hear anything in there. She sits there in silence, and when she does talk, it’s to tell me I don’t know anything. It’s like the therapy is a test to see how far she can push before I break and tell her what she wants to hear.” He rubs his face. “Sorry, I don’t mean to dump all this on you. God, what am I thinking?” He gives me a tight smile. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t march back here and put you in an awkward position again. And I’ll do my best to ensure my personal life doesn’t impact my work here…or yours.”

“Hey, it’s fine. And I hope everything, you know, works out.”

But even as I say it, I know he’s not going to be able to give one hundred percent to the job. I’m distracted, letting my feelings for Lucas affect me, and we’ve known each other for what…maybe eight, nine months total if we add up only the time we’ve been together? Robbie’s been with his wife eleven years, probably longer if you count dating before the marriage.

As I leave, I steal a quick glance at Robbie. His shoulders slope, and he moves like an arthritic man to his work chair.

I feel an intense agony over the dissolution of my relationship with Lucas, and it’s got to be a hundred times worse for Robbie, who’s built over a decade of life with his wife. I’d probably crawl into a hole and die if Lucas and I broke up after what felt like a lifetime together.

For the first time, I start to understand my mother’s obsession with my father because I’m beginning to suspect my depth of feeling for Lucas is the same.

Chapter Eighteen

Ava

I feel even worse on Friday than I did yesterday. I can barely move my head without feeling nauseated. What did I eat to make me feel so awful?

Then I recall I had a Chinese takeout that I like when I’m busy. It’s quick and cheap, just what I need. I force myself to sit up, but it only makes me feel worse. Moaning, I crawl to the living room to get my phone. Unfortunately, I left it on the dining table last night after finishing up some memos. I push myself up and grab it, then immediately drop as my head spins until I’m lying flat on my back on the floor.

I dial Robbie’s personal number.

“This is Robbie.”

“Hi, this is Ava.”

“Ava? Are you okay?”

His voice seems far away—crappy reception. I must sound bad if he asks me if I’m okay before I say more. “I hate doing this—I really do—but do you mind if I take today off? I don’t feel well, and I’m not sure about driving.”

“Not at all. Please take care of yourself. I knew you were working too many hours, and I should’ve done something earlier.”

“It’s not your fault. I’m just a bit under the weather. I’ll be fine by Monday.”

“If you’re sure. But if you don’t feel okay on Monday, you don’t have to come in.”

“Thanks, boss.” Then I remember something. “Oh, did you get the email I forwarded you from the clinic about…you know…the thing with your wife?”

“Yes.” He clears his throat. “You mentioned that already.”

“Oh.” My mind is like a sieve lately. “Sorry. I won’t tell anyone.” Then I add impulsively, “I hope it works out for you.”

“Thanks, Ava.”

He hangs up. I loosen my grip on the phone and lie there, my eyes closed. My brain tells me I should get up and shower—at least—but it’s too much bother. It’s not like I’m going to see anybody. If I get hungry—doubtful, given how gross my tummy feels—I’ll just order something.

I slowly close my eyes and let my consciousness float around, not quite asleep but not awake either—the state I call eighty-five percent sleep…