Come Alive (The Cityscape 2)

“Hey,” he said. “What did you say?”

I looked up and shook my head, a silent beg that he wouldn’t make me say it again. It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have said it. I’m not ready. But he waited until I couldn’t stand the silence another second. “I – I slept with someone else.”

“When?” he cried, standing. “Who?”

“It’s not important,” I mumbled. “I did it, and that’s it.” The smell of burning batter filled the kitchen, but I couldn’t tear my gaze from him.

He fell back into his chair blindly. “This is some twisted way of trying to get out of the birth control thing.”

If only. I shook my head at the floor, shrugging my shoulders helplessly.

“Isn’t it?” His voice was hopeful, but it turned soft and despondent. “How? Who?”

I continued to shake my head silently. Did it matter? Why make things worse with details?

“When?” he asked.

“About five months ago.”

He laughed in a burst of dead air before dropping his forehead in his palm. “All this time, I thought . . .”

My hands flew to my face, an attempt to hold in the tears. We sat that way for a long moment, not speaking.

“Who?” he asked again. “Who was it?”

I kept my face buried. “You don’t know him.”

He snorted. When I looked up again, his elbows were on the table, his face in his hands. “I’m such a fool,” he said. “I feel so . . . stupid. Is this what you wanted? To make me look stupid?”

“Of course not,” I said, furrowing my eyebrows. “It just . . . happened.”

“Once?”

I cleared my throat and looked away. “Twice,” I lied. I knew I could never bring myself to tell him the truth about the masquerade ball.

“After everything that I’ve done for you.” His voice pitched. “How could you do this? And why are you telling me now?”

“I’m so sorry. You deserve better.” I approached the table cautiously. My heart pounded as I eased into a chair. “I know it’s a shock. What can I do? To make it better?”

“Seriously? What kind of question is that?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

He shot up and overturned the chair. As he bent to pick it up, he said, “I have to get to work.”

“Now?” I exclaimed. “We need to discuss this.”

“I should take the day off because you picked now to tell me?” he snarled. “Hell of a time, really, Liv. Now I have to sit through work thinking about it all day.”

I looked at him pleadingly, even though his eyes were fixed on the floor. “Don’t go. I’ll tell you anything, just stay.”

“Yes, you will tell me everything. Later. Right now, I have to go to work.”

“Call in sick,” I implored. “We have to talk about this now. Do it for us. Let’s fix this right now, today.”

He gave me a lingering look. “I just really can’t deal with this right now, on top of work? Shit.” He rubbed his temples and muttered, “Why now?”

“Are you going to leave me?” I whispered.

He looked over my head and squinted. His chin trembled slightly. “No. I don’t know. Maybe.” He turned away and snatched his blazer from the couch. “And I want the truth tonight. No more secrets.” Not long after, the front door slammed.

I straightened up and took an unsteady breath. I unplugged the grill and overturned the burnt pancakes into the sink. It was done. I sought relief, but I only felt ill to my core.

I grabbed my coat and left for the office, replaying the morning over and over on the way until I thought I might vomit. Not until I was behind my locked door did I sink into my shame with the onset of rain. I had done to Bill what I’d shielded myself from all these years: I’d ripped the carpet out from under him; I’d shattered his trust. This would destroy him.

I agonized over what would come next. Would he leave me? And what would I do? Where would I go?

I tried to understand what I was feeling. At the thought of him leaving, I was sad and scared but not surprised. I almost felt relieved that the day had finally come that my marriage would end the same way as my parents’. As if I had known all along that I was cursed.

But Bill’s belief in the bond of marriage was stronger than that. He might take this out on me forever, but he wouldn’t leave. It wasn’t him. It was part of the reason I’d agreed to marry him in the first place; he was constant and reliable.

I couldn’t blame my infidelity on a bad marriage. What had happened between David and me was unable to be contained. Before I’d met him, I wouldn’t have classified Bill’s and my relationship as anything but stable. But if Bill didn’t feel like home, didn’t that mean something? I wondered shamefully if being with Bill was still what I wanted.

And then I thought of David. Now that Bill knew, it was more than over. I had tried to forget him, but it was impossible. Nobody made me feel the way he did. He had awoken something, and I would never be the same for it.

Despite the way he had crushed me on Saturday, I didn’t want him any less. If anything, our magnetic pull intensified with every minute that passed, regardless of whether we were together or apart. I still wanted him. And I wanted him all to myself. No Maria, no Dani, no Bill.

I was an hour through revising an editorial that should have taken me thirty minutes to complete. I'd been stuck on the same sentence for five minutes when I stopped and took out my phone.

I swallowed hard as I stared at it. I didn’t want to do it. But it was no longer about what I wanted. It was about making things right – no matter how painful that might be. Because Bill and I could not move forward this way.

Maybe in some other life, we were meant to be. Soul mates, even. I smiled to myself at how he turned me into a believer.

I didn’t know how I would end it once and for all, but it had to be done. David’s e-mail told me that it wasn’t over. If there was any doubt between us, I had to put it to rest. David and Bill both deserved the truth.

With unsteady fingers, I crafted my message.

Oct 4, 2012 4:06 PM

Meet me at your office in 20 minutes.

CHAPTER 21

WHEN I ARRIVED at Pierson/Greer, David’s whole floor was empty. I peeked into his office but remained in the doorway to wait. My heart leaped when the door across the way opened. Arnaud Mallory, David’s unnerving colleague with a tendency for leering, stuck his head out. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping he wouldn’t see me.

“Bonjour, Olivia.”

“Mr. Mallory.”

“Call me Arnaud. Expecting Dylan?”

I nodded.

“Such a shame. I would never leave a pretty girl like you waiting.” I shuddered slightly as his voice crept over me. “Come in, have a drink.”

“No, I think I’ll just wait for – for Mr. Dylan here.”

“But no, I won’t have it. Come, come.”

David strode into the office then, and I was almost relieved. But seeing him again aroused a host of other emotions. Aside from the inexorable need I had to run to him, shame washed over me with the memory of the coarse tree and even coarser dismissal.

“I got your text,” he said, stopping abruptly in front of me. “What is it?”

“We need to talk.”

He gestured behind me. “In my office.” In Arnaud’s direction, he asked, “Where the hell is Clare? Find her. She’s not supposed to leave this desk.”

As he shut the door, I dizzily inhaled the intoxicating scent of his office; spicy, natural but refined. Him, but stronger. I remembered our moment in the crowded elevator. I remembered him at the edge of the roof in the dark as I pressed my cheek against his back. I remembered the first time I was alone with him, at Lucy’s engagement party. I remembered, I remembered, I remembered. “I can’t do this,” I uttered to myself, vibrating with fear and nerves. Just say it. We’re done. Bill knows, and we . . . are . . . done.

He stalked in m

y direction, relief written on his face. “I’m glad you came. We need to talk about Saturday night. There’s no excuse – Jesus Christ, you’re shaking,” he said, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t do this,” I said, moving toward the door.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He jumped in front of me. “What’s going on?”

I crossed my arms into myself. “I shouldn’t have come here. I thought I could do this, but I can’t.”

“Olivia,” he said softly, but with authority. “Say what you came here to say.” The hopefulness in his voice pulled at my heart. “Don’t shut me out. Tell me why you’re here.”

I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him that I’d told Bill, and that I could never see him again. I wanted to say that he’d hurt me on Saturday night. That I felt used and disgusting. I wanted to tell him that since I’d met him, life meant something different.

My stomach heaved, and I felt suddenly hot and clammy. “I don’t think I can do this right now.” I ran the back of my hand over my slick forehead. Nausea struck my gut. “Everything is going to be fine,” I told myself.

“Fine?” he repeated, his voice rising. “You’re going to pull that shit with me?”

I blinked at him for a long moment. My knees may as well have been knocking together. Oh God, this is it. This is it.

“You don’t look well. Do you need – ”

“He knows!” I cried.

“What?”

“He . . . knows.” I wrung my fingers. “It’s over. This,” I clarified, motioning between us, “is so over.”

“You told him?”