The Fallout (The Therapist #3) - W.S. Greer Page 0,17

seems as though it’s ready to just drop the idea of commitment these days. Everybody just wants to have fun.

If that’s the case, would I be so wrong if I returned Chris’s flirting? Maybe I should. Maybe I should take the opportunity and give Eli a taste of his own medicine. Then he’d know how hard I cry at night behind the closed door of our bedroom. Maybe I should do to him exactly what he has done to me. Maybe he should be the one to have to put on a happy face in front of his coworkers while he silently wishes he lay in bed crying and eating ice cream. Maybe he should know how much work it is just to be in the same room with the person who cheated on you, let alone to laugh and act like you're happy. He should know how this feels. I should make him feel it. He’s the one who deserves this suffering, not me. I could do it. I should do it.

The thought threatens to swallow me whole like the mouth of a whale, and it takes deep breaths and concentration to swim away from it. Although revenge sounds so good to me right now, the last thing I want to do is plunge myself down to Eli’s level. If I do what he did, I’m no better than he is. I can't allow myself to give in to the norms of a society losing its grip on being faithful. I have to be above all of that.

With my pride intact, I take one last deep breath, pick up the phone, and call my next case to schedule for next week. When one o’clock comes and I make my way to the meeting, I’ll be sure to sit far away from Chris Bronson.

10

~ Demi ~

I arrive back at home at seven-thirty in the evening. It’s not a particularly late night for me, but it’s past the standard five o'clock, when I’m supposed to get off. When I pull into the garage, I see Eli’s black Lexus is already sleeping peacefully inside. He beat me home, which is starting to become more and more common.

Once inside, I find the house is quiet. No random voices coming from the TV. No music blaring from the gigantic JBL subwoofer next to the entertainment center. Not even the sound of Eli cooking in the kitchen. It’s so quiet it makes me nervous, like I might find someone lurking around the corner who shouldn't be there.

When I turn the corner into the living room, I find Eli sitting off to the side of the room at the small glass table we don't usually sit in. This particular table has always been more decorative than anything. We don't even sit at the dining room table to eat meals, so Eli’s presence here is new.

Eli is wearing a purple Rehoboth Beach T-shirt and the look of a man who’s deep in thought. His dark blue eyes are fixed on the white table cloth in front of him until I step into the room and he looks up at me.

“Hi,” he says when our eyes meet.

“Hey,” I answer.

As I walk in, I fully intend for those two words to be the only words spoken between us. I expect to walk right past Eli and go into the bedroom, where I’ll close the door behind me until I want to get some food later. However, when I step next to Eli on my way to the room, he reaches out and wraps his fingers around my wrist.

“Demi,” he says. I look down at his grip on me, and he pulls his hand away. “Sorry. I was just wanting to get your attention, because I was hoping we could talk. I know we’ve tried to talk before and things always turn ugly, but I want this time to be different. I want to really talk, because there's something I need to say and I think you need to hear. So, can we? Please?”

I don't want to do it. I know it has been six months, and some people might assume I shouldn't feel this angry after all this time. Those people can go fuck themselves. My anger over this is still running at peak proficiency, and no matter how good of a job I’ve done in the past at suppressing that emotion, it has always been there. Eli may not have seen it, but it was there, eating away