“What was it like?” Andrew asks. “When he cheated?”
I look over my shoulder at him. The question, though out of nowhere, doesn’t feel abrupt. In fact, considering the conversation that led him there, it hits a little close to a nerve. Would Reggie have cheated if I’d been a different kind of wife? Like the daily-luncheon, charity-heading arm candy of his colleagues? “Do you have to ask? Surely you’ve been cheated on.”
“Why do you assume that?”
“Almost everyone I know has. Most, if not all of my friends.”
“Not me. Shana was the only person who’s been close enough to hurt me. She didn’t cheat, though.”
I turn, if only to hide the surprise in my expression. I can’t remember if he’d told me that before because the truth is, I wouldn’t have believed him. I’m not even sure I do now. Maybe Shana did cheat, and he just doesn’t know it.
I lean forward and take our drinks from the counter, passing his back. I’ve talked about Reggie a lot with my girlfriends. We bond over bashing our exes. This is different, though. I’m naked with a man I’ve let get a little closer than I meant to. My past is not an easy place for me to go even when I’m dressed and sitting in my therapist’s mild, eggshell-colored office.
After a courage-bolstering sip of whisky, I say, “It’s kind of like slaving over a lobster dinner for someone you love, and when they get home, they tell you they don’t eat crustaceans. While you watch, they dump everything in a blender and hit shred. Only, that crustacean is your heart.”
“I see,” he says.
“And then they don’t even drink it. They pour it down the drain. And turn on the garbage disposal, just in case there’s anything they missed.”
He chuckles softly, which, despite my macabre disposition, makes me smile. “I think I get the idea, though your cooking analogies could use some work. Who was the woman?”
“The wife of one of the stockbroker’s in his office. I remember when I found them, my throat just closed. It was like choking. I really thought I’d die on the spot.”
“You found them?” he asks.
I put my cheek on my knee and look into the bedroom. “I didn’t mention that?”
“Definitely not.” He must follow my gaze, because he then says, “There? In your bed?”
“I had an appointment near here, and I decided to come home for lunch. It was that stupid.” The worst part is not anticipating something like that, being caught completely off guard. At least if I’d seen a trail of clothing on the way to the bedroom or even heard them, but no. I’d just walked right in to get a sweater from my closet and nearly tripped right onto the bed with them. “He was never very creative.”
Andrew puts his hands on my shoulders and squeezes once. The simple gesture is more soothing than he probably knows. “Isn’t it hard to sleep there?”
I shrug. “It’s just a bed. I’m not going to go through the trouble of replacing it. I got rid of the sheets, of course.”
He snorts. “Then you’re stronger than I am.”
“Am I?”
“Emotionally, yes. But physically?” He leans forward as he pulls me back toward him to speak in my ear. “I’d love the opportunity to kick . . . his . . . ass.”
His warm breath tickles in just the right way. “So would I.”
“I’m not kidding.”
I turn back as much as I can. “Is that so?”
He tucks some loose strands behind my ear. “I’m not a boy who goes to some fancy office during the day and thinks it’s okay to dick my woman around. I’m a man, Amelia. I treat women like treasure. I treat my girlfriend like the love of my fucking life. And I treat an asshole like an asshole.”
The intensity in his voice raises every hair on my body. I can’t resist picturing it. Andrew and Reggie face to face would be terrifying in real life, but maybe, in my fantasy, it can be a little thrilling too. “How does an asshole get treated?”
“If he ever comes around while I’m here, he’ll leave knowing it’s his last visit.”
It feels like the only thing I’ve ever wanted to hear, but my self-doubt is never far, and I know once Andrew leaves, he won’t come back. He won’t be around the next time Reggie shows up. “You’re sweet.”
“I just threatened to kick some ass, and I’m sweet?” I hear the smile in his voice. “Are you trying to shred my ego?”
I don’t believe Andrew is all talk—I think he really believes he’d do it. He seems to have temporarily forgotten about Bell, though. Devoted dads don’t go around taking risks like that. “What about Shana?” I ask. “Am I now expected to say I’ll make her pay too?”
He grunts good-naturedly. “Nah.”
He doesn’t offer anything else. It occurs to me I don’t know much about Shana, at least not the specifics. Is it that I haven’t asked? Or that he hasn’t offered? “How long has it been since she left?”
“Almost four years. Right around Bell’s third birthday.”
“That must’ve been awful.”
“Well. You know.”
I shift, and the tub squeaks. Andrew has no problem pressing me for information on Reggie, but he doesn’t seem as keen to share himself. I’ve given him a lot tonight, though. “What was it like? When she left? What about Bell?”
“Come here.” I lean back against his chest, and he puts his arms around me. “It was pretty much how you’d imagine. I was clueless. Sadie helped as best she could from an hour away.”
“What about your parents?”
“They’re closer, about fifteen minutes from here. But they’re not that involved.”
“By choice?”
“It’s mutual. I mean, not so much for my mom. She wants to see Bell more. I just hated growing up there, and I don’t really want Bell to get too close to them.”
“Why not?”
He shrugs under me. “They’ll just disappoint her.”
“Isn’t that what parents do?” I ask. When he doesn’t answer, I realize my mistake. “Not all parents, obviously. Not you.”
“It’ll be a while before we know, won’t it?”
I furrow my brows. “No,” I say. “There’s no question. Bell is so fortunate to have you as a dad.”
“I do my best.” He clears his throat. “How’d your parents disappoint you?”
I run my hand over his arm, admiring the fine dark hair. “It’s the other way around. I didn’t go to business school. I’ll be divorced at thirty-two. I barely talk to them or my niece and nephew because I’m so swamped with work. It’s not exactly the conservative Texan way my sister went.”
“You’re from the South?”
“Yep. I think they hoped I’d move home at some point and marry a nice, upstanding lawyer, doctor or banker . . . like Reggie, actually.”
“Don’t tell me they were fans of his.”
“My mom loved him before she’d even met him. I should’ve known then it was doomed. When I told her I was leaving him, she nearly had a heart attack.”
“Because he cheated on you?”
“Lord, no,” I say. “That’s not an excuse to leave. It’s an ‘opportunity.’ She thinks I should identify how I’ve neglected my husband and step up as a wife.”
“Fuck that,” he says.
“Yeah. Exactly. Fuck that.” I follow it up with a sip of Glenlivet. The words taste just as good as the whisky. “She would hate you.”
He laughs. “Blue collar mechanic from New Jersey with an illegitimate child, a motorcycle, and tattoos? Can’t imagine why.”
“That’s not what I see.”
“No?” he asks, nuzzling my cheek. “What do you see?”
I pause. “A loving father who takes control of his life. An artist.”
“I’m an artist?”