. . . wouldn’t he?
“Sure, we can get together,” he said, as if I’d called to invite him for drinks. “I wanted to come get a few more of my things, anyway.”
I bit my lip so hard I tasted the rusty tang of blood.
After work, while Gabby was at debate practice, I found myself in the bizarre position of figuring out how to dress for my soon-to-be ex-husband. I didn’t want to “doll up” for him, but I felt compelled to look somewhat good. I put my hair up in a loose twist and settled for jeans and a fitted T-shirt. V-neck. I stood before the mirror and remembered Vijay telling me—when we took high-school anatomy together—that I had beautiful clavicles. I traced those bones with my fingers, remembering how stark they’d been when Bobby first met me.
I counted in my head. There were still three days left before Vijay left Africa.
Bobby knocked on the door, like a guest.
I froze, relieved he was here and full of dread that this moment had arrived.
We ended up in the kitchen, which bothered me because it seemed like Bobby’s turf. Before I could bring up my concern about Gabby, he started in on a list of things we needed to do: separate cell phone accounts, close joint accounts at the bank, discuss the farm. He’d made a budget of the utilities and mortgage to show me I couldn’t keep the farm. Oh, that’s not what he said. He said sweet things like, “I know you love this place, but this will be a lot for one person. How will you take care of it on your own?”
Smoldering began under my skin. “I’m not moving, Bobby.”
“Cam, I’m not trying to be an asshole, but have you even called anyone to look at the roof? Or that corner of the barn? It’s been almost a week.”
“Well, you know, this week was, um . . . exceptional. I’ve been a bit overwhelmed. See, my husband left me and is sleeping with a twenty-two-year-old.”
He didn’t deny it this time. He pushed the budget across the kitchen island. “Just look at this, okay? We have to be practical about the finances, with Gabby going to college next year.”
At least he still remembered he had a daughter! I glanced at the budget and my nostrils flared. My ribs rose and fell in short breaths I imagined as puffs of smoke.
There was a print date in the corner of the paper. “You made this budget before you left.”
He closed his eyes a fraction too long, signaling his impatience.
“This is dated two weeks before you left. You knew you were going to walk out and what did you do? You sat at your damn desk and made a budget? You couldn’t give me even a hint?”
I wadded the budget into a ball in my fist.
He spoke to the Portuguese tile. “Cami, please know I just wanted to take care of you both.”
I flung the paper ball at him. It bounced off his chest onto the island between us.
“That isn’t taking care of us! You were taking care of details, of logistics, not of us.”
He picked up the crumpled budget and smoothed it flat.
“You don’t even see the difference, do you?”
My hands trembled so violently I clutched the pepper grinder to still them.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I did this so badly. I . . . I’m sorry.”
When I put my hands flat on the tile, he grabbed for one as if it were a lifeline. I gasped at the pain in my bite wounds, but he didn’t notice. He grasped my hand in both of his own, then pressed my palm to his cheek. “Oh, Cam, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The familiarity of that unshaven jawline felt right. I concentrated on his hands, hands that had caressed me, massaged my feet when I was pregnant, rubbed oil into my monstrous belly. He’d croon Frank Sinatra tunes to my navel. His raspy chin tickled in my memory, his voice buzzing through my taut, tight skin. These hands had held Gabriella before I even had. That image, of this man holding his naked newborn daughter, rocked into me and stole my breath.
I know you, I wanted to say. For a second the energy in the kitchen changed. I thought we might laugh and look at each other and say, “Shit! What did we just almost do? That was close!”
But, still holding my hand, he said, “If I could go back and do it