The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue 2)

“You’re deliberately trying to piss me off.”

It is satisfying to see him squirm. When I think I’m starting to get over the pain, I remember how it felt to see them together, tangled in my sheets, the ones I picked out from Restoration Hardware, paid for, carried home, washed, and made the bed with. I remember learning the affair had been going on almost a year—like I’d been walking down the sidewalk and had had an anvil dropped on my head. It was a one-two punch, getting it from both sides. “You’re the one who came into my home,” I point out. “I’m just making conversation.”

“Our home,” he says.

“Not anymore.” I take a fortifying breath. Though Andrew’s no longer around to help me through this, I know I still need to give up the apartment. While I’m here, I’m holding onto Reggie, and that’s the last thing I want to do. Reggie won’t like losing even more control over me than he already has, but that’s partly why I need to go. “I’m getting my own place. You can have the apartment back, and you can keep your money. I don’t even want alimony.”

He tilts his head. “Excuse me?”

“I give up.” As I say it, I straighten my back. It feels nothing like surrender. The opposite even. It’s a form of liberation. “You win.”

“I don’t think so,” he says with a dismissive wave.

“The only thing I want is my business. I’ll buy you out. You get to keep alimony and recoup your investment. You get it all.”

“I don’t get you.”

“That’s not up for negotiation.”

“I’ve had a long time to live with my regret,” he says. “Every day that goes by, I feel it more. I don’t like myself without you. I’m a jerk.”

“You were always a jerk,” I say. “But neither of us noticed, because we were in love.”

“Are in love.”

I shake my head slowly. I’m not sure how many other ways there are to say it. It was nice to gloat for a few minutes, but he’s bordering on pitiful.

“I have something for you.” He sets his drink down carefully, as if he suddenly wants to appear sober, and takes an envelope out of his suit jacket pocket. “What if we just start over?”

I frown. “What is that?”

“Tickets to Paris. I’m taking you back to where it all began, only this time, I want to spoil you even more. Champs Elysées. First class seats. My secretary booked us a suite in the same hotel.”

I stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”

He shows me the tickets with a half-smile. “This is how serious I am. I know I’ve made my intentions clear, but I want to prove that I’m ready to do this for real. Let’s make love on that moonlit balcony again. Marvel at the Eiffel Tower, eat pastries, sip café crème.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. It’s a happy memory, that first night we spent together in Paris—he hadn’t showed me yet how consumed he was by money and status. But that’s all it is. A memory. Reggie has made a living on his persistence, but this is borderline delusional. In the last year, I haven’t given him any indication I want to get back together, much less spend a romantic vacation with him.

“You are serious, aren’t you?” I ask. “After everything you’ve done to me, and after everything I’ve said, you actually think we have a chance.”

“There’s always a chance. No door is ever completely closed.”

“No. Reggie, you’re starting to worry me. You need to accept that this isn’t going to happen.”

“I can’t.”

“You have to. I’m already making arrangements to move out—”

“You aren’t leaving this apartment.”

“Yes, I am—”

“You aren’t leaving this apartment,” he booms, snarling as he swipes a glass of bourbon onto the floor.

I jump back as it shatters, clamping my hand over my mouth. He lunges forward to grab my shoulders. “What the hell is your problem?” he asks, shaking me. “I treated you like a queen! I made one mistake. Get over it already.”

“Okay,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Okay. You’re right.”

“Don’t fucking patronize me.” He pushes me back while keeping ahold of me, and my heel slams against a wall.

“Stop, Reggie—you’re hurting me.”

His expression crumbles, and he releases me. “I’m sorry, muffin. But you won’t listen. We need each other. I just want you to stop pretending we don’t.”

Reggie doesn’t like not getting what he wants from people. I’ve seen him come home and rage over competitors, clients, even the boy who delivers his mail. During the course of our relationship, I started to learn how far I could push him, but it occurs to me—just because we’re not together anymore doesn’t mean I don’t still have to play by his rules. “All right,” I say, slowly moving back so he doesn’t think I’m running away. I just need him out of my apartment. “I’ll listen. You and I can have a long talk. Tomorrow. When you’re sober.”

“Tonight,” he says, inching forward until I’ve retreated into the hall. “Now. We’ll work this out now so we can be together tonight. Do you know how long it’s been since I slept? Really slept?”

My stomach flips. I will never, ever sleep in the same bed as him. Nor will I let him near my body after the way he abused his power in the past. “I promise we can talk tomorrow,” I lie. I turn for the front door, but he grabs my wrist.

“Reggie, please—”

He pulls me the opposite direction. Instinctively, I try to wrench free, twisting until my skin burns. When I realize he’s heading toward the bedroom, I panic. “I don’t want this,” I say. “Let me go. I don’t want you.”

He turns on me, grabbing my other forearm. “You’ll fuck some piece-of-shit mechanic from Jersey and not your own husband? Are you some kind of whore?”

My chest stutters with shortened breaths. “No. I—this isn’t about him.”

“You’re right. It’s about you and me.”

“There is no you and me,” I say, needing to make myself as clear as possible. “Now let me go. You know I don’t like to be restrained.”

“I’ll let you go,” he says, but continues clutching me, “once you tell me how sorry you are for putting us through this. Once you prove your love for me. I’ll hold you here all night if I have to.”

THIRTY

Reggie kicks two club chairs together in the living room, keeping me bound by his hands, and orders me to sit in the one facing him. To an outsider, we’d look like lovers unable to let go of each other even in the comfort of our home.

I’m sweating. My wrists throb from his grasp. Reggie knows I don’t like to be restrained. I’ve told him several times.

“You don’t really want to be with him,” he says. “You’re just trying to get back at me. You’ve succeeded. What’ll it take to get you to call off this divorce?”

“I told you, this is not about him. It’s about us.” I glance around. The apartment is smaller. The walls are definitely closing in. I pull on my hands, but even when he wasn’t in shape and I’d been working out regularly, Reggie was stronger than me.

“What’s wrong, muffin?” he asks. “You afraid of your own husband?”

“You know I don’t like to be held like this.”

“Because it reminds you you’re weak. Alone. Out of control. You talk a big game, but you’re just as weak as any other woman. Virginia was the same—that’s why she hopped into bed with me fir

st chance she got. I barely had to smile in her direction.”

I close my eyes, tune Reggie out, and grasp for the strength I need. It’s Andrew I see, looking down on me in the hotel room after he’d removed my blindfold.

“I won’t hurt you. That’s not why I’m holding you. I care about you, and I want you to be strong. You can be in control like this, but not if you’re afraid.”

Strong. I am stronger than Reggie, maybe not physically, but mentally. Emotionally. I know his weaknesses better than he does. I will the tension out of my body. At first, it doesn’t budge. I breathe in slowly through my nose and exhale, the way Andrew coached me.

“You’re still my wife,” Reggie says. I sense him closer, his warm, alcohol-tinted breath near my face. “I know you still want me. I see it in your face. You get this look when you’re turned on.”

Panic flares in me again, but I breathe through it and hold onto the image of Andrew and his poise as he held me. I’m not aroused—I’m scared. That’s what Reggie sees, what he wants to see. Terror. The stiffness in my arms begins to ease. I open my eyes. “I’m not turned on,” I say. “I want you to let go of me.”

He stands, pulling me up with him. “You don’t know what you want,” he says softly, sliding his thumb over the pulse of one wrist. “I do, though—I always have.”

“I’m telling you what I want. You have to respect that.”

He drops his forehead to mine, but as much as I’d like to, I don’t jerk away. “Give me a chance to remind you how good we are,” he says, looking down the front of my robe. “Come on, babe.”

My heart hammers against my chest, but I keep my expression calm. This is what my therapist and I have gone over and over. “I said no, Reggie.” I swallow. “If you push me until I have no choice but to give in, that’s rape.”

He reels back, his eyes popping open. “Rape? What the . . . are you crazy?”

“No.”

“We’re married. We’ve had sex a thousand times.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “If I don’t want it and you bully me into it anyway, that’s force, and I won’t stay quiet. How will that look for your reputation? Your ‘new venture’?” My shoulders are back to where they should be, my breathing evening out, and though my nerves buzz, I find strength in my own words. “I’m not afraid of you.”