To Have and to Hate

“It was nice seeing you again,” I say, politely smiling toward Olivier.

“Same goes for you. And I meant what I said—I’d love to see your art.”

I nod and turn to Walt, waiting to see what he’ll do. Half of me expects him to grab my hand and tug me out of the room, but he only gestures for me to go ahead of him as we leave the gallery. I wave to Nadiya as we pass her talking in a group, miming a phone beside my ear to let her know we’ll be in touch, and then all too soon, we’re out on the sidewalk, loading into the back of Walt’s SUV.

I slide in first, and Walt takes the seat by the other window. Matthew hops up front.

“Mind taking me back to my apartment first?” he asks, and we both agree it’s fine.

Walt is quiet on the drive, glancing down at his phone and reading through emails. It sounds like he has work to do in the morning so I try not to bother him as we wind through the New York streets.

I’m glad for the silence as I stare out the window and work through the last few hours. Almost as soon as I buckled my seatbelt, the conversation from the library surged back into the forefront of my thoughts. All the insecurities and confusion seem to have only multiplied in the hours since Walt first spoke about dissolving the trust and our marriage.

It’s late by the time we arrive back at our apartment. We thank Walt’s driver and head into the quiet lobby of our building. The elevator doors open for us immediately, and we step inside.

“That was an interesting collection,” Walt says, swiping his keycard for the penthouse floor. “I’d like to reach out to my adviser about acquiring more photography for the apartment.”

This is the first substantial thing he’s said to me since we left the gallery, and for some reason, it’s the last thing I want to hear.

I hum and look at the numbers lighting up above the elevator doors as we continue climbing floors.

“Elizabeth?”

I hum again. It seems to be the only communication I’m capable of at the moment.

“Are you upset?”

I keep watching those numbers illuminating, waiting, waiting, waiting until they reach 35, and then the elevator doors swoop open, and I reply with a simple “Yes” before stepping out into the entry gallery.

Walt steps out behind me at a lazy pace, following after me as I walk toward my room. I don’t bother flipping on my light. There’s enough spilling in from the hallway.

I go inside and take a seat on my bed, bending down to start unlacing my boots. I toe them off, and when I look up, I find Walt standing in the doorway, encased there. His broad shoulders fill the space. His cunning eyes are on me. He doesn’t look the least bit upset, or sad, merely…patient. Like he has all the time in the world to wait for me to stop acting petulant.

Somehow, that only makes my blood run hotter.

“Would you like to tell me why you’re upset?” he asks.

“Not particularly.”

He frowns, obviously frustrated by my inability to meet him halfway.

He pushes off the doorframe and walks toward me. I stand up and crane my neck to look him in the eyes.

“It’s been a long day,” I say, hoping that will do the trick. “I think I’d just like to get some sleep if that’s all right with you.”

I try to move around him and he blocks my path, his hand falling to the center of my chest. He doesn’t mean it to be domineering. It’s a gentle touch, and yet the sheer size of his hand is still overwhelming. I look down at it as he speaks.

“Are you sad I pulled you away from Olivier?” he asks, bending down to try to catch my eyes.

I screw up my features in confusion.

“What?”

The question is totally preposterous.

“It just seems like you were happy enough with him, and now that you’re home with me, you’re upset. I said you could stay at the gallery.”

“Yes, you gave me that option, and it was very polite of you.” I say polite like it’s derogatory.

The left side of his mouth twitches, like he’s fighting back a smile. “Are you angry at me for being polite?”

“I guess so,” I say, again trying to pivot around him.

His hands reach out to lock on my waist, keeping me in place between him and my bed. He has ahold of me through my dress, bunching the fabric as his thumbs brush across my hip bones.

“I thought you had an early morning,” I say, my breath hitching slightly. I’m annoyed that I don’t sound as mad as I feel. “Shouldn’t you be in bed right now?”

“I would be if only you’d cooperate,” he says, squeezing my hips.