my God. That was your nefarious plan.”
“Nefarious? I didn’t have a plan, Charlotte. I’m not a cartoon villain. I didn’t set out to let them think anything. I saw an aging, lonely couple who missed their grown children. You flitted off to San Francisco without a backward glance. Justin’s wife’s work took them to Frankfurt. It didn’t hurt me any to join them for a home-cooked meal, so I did.”
“And in all those dinners, you couldn’t find the time to tell them why we got married?”
“I’m sure they know.”
“Really?” I let the word drip with sarcasm. “Because I didn’t hear you once correct my mother’s assumption that you’re wildly in love with me and have been patiently waiting for me to return home.”
His head snaps back as though the concept is abhorrent. “She does not think that.”
“Well, she definitely wants to believe it. And I’m betting when I head back to San Francisco, you won’t be telling them that you’re the one who asked for a divorce.”
His fingers tighten on my wrist. “Now who’s the one acting like the put-upon spouse? Don’t pretend that you want to stay married to me. Not when it’s just the two of us. And don’t pretend you ever wanted to get married in the first place. It was a business transaction, pure and simple. For both of us.”
He’s right, but in this moment, nothing between us feels businesslike. He’s still got my wrist in a viselike grip. His expression is murderous, and I expect mine is too. We’re both breathing hard, with just a few inches separating us in the back of the cab, and I don’t think it’s my imagination that the tension between us is just slightly tinged with sexual awareness.
Ten years ago, I married a quiet Irish boy who did absolutely nothing to get my blood pumping.
Now, however, I can’t deny that grown-up Colin isn’t just objectively good-looking—he’s fiercely attractive. To me.
His gaze drops to my lips, and I wonder if he feels the pull too. I wonder if he wants to kiss me as badly as I want him to. He releases my wrist abruptly, turning his head away, and making a noise that sounds an awful lot like disgust.
Well. That answers that question.
I struggle to contain my disappointment, even as I register the sudden coolness on my arm where his fingertips had been.
“It’s just one party,” he grumbles. “We’ll get through it. Then we can tell your parents the whole truth.”
“The truth. Meaning that you want a divorce,” I say, just to be very clear that I won’t be the lone bad guy in this situation.
“Yes,” Colin says in a clipped tone, as the cab pulls up outside our apartment. “That I want a divorce.”
He climbs out of the cab without another word, and I pause just for a moment before following suit, frowning in irritation and more than a little confusion, at how much his announcement bothers me.
Chapter 11
Friday, September 4
Whatever easy tolerance Colin and I had developed during that first week evaporates following the disastrous dinner with my parents.
All week, we’ve been acting like the strangers we are, barely speaking except for absolute essentials.
Where’d you put the can opener?
Did you move my phone charger?
Can you please turn off that god-awful music?
The last one is me because Colin apparently likes jazz, which has always sounded like chaos to my ears.
Mostly, we’ve avoided each other. I found a co-working space where I’ve rented a small office. I spend all day there, and then I’ve made it a point to catch up on the Manhattan social scene in the evenings. I’ve caught up with friends I haven’t seen in years, flirted with hot Wall Street guys over martinis, and just generally let myself remember how much I love this city.
I love it with as much enthusiasm as I hate my husband.
I’ve been half hoping for a hurricane. Not the really destructive kind, just … you know, rough enough that my mom will have to cancel this damn party.
But Friday rolls around, and though the day is oppressively humid, there’s zero chance of extreme weather canceling the party. Even if there was, there are stronger forces in this world than hurricanes.
My mother is one of them.
To her credit, she hasn’t nagged me about the party. Not about showing up, what to wear, how to behave. There are no lectures about not embarrassing her or unsubtle reminders to change absolutely everything about my personality.
Instead, it’s as though she merely expects me to