The First Taste(39)

He frowns. “Look, muffin—”

“Reggie, I hate that nickname.”

“You don’t mean that. It’s our thing.”

“I never told you because I loved you, but I don’t anymore, so now I can be honest. It’s patronizing and sexist to reduce me to a baked good. And a fatty, top-heavy one at that.”

He shakes his head, gaping at me. “I don’t believe that.”

“Would you nickname a man ‘muffin,’ or any other pastry for that matter?”

“Not that,” he says, waving a hand. “I don’t believe you don’t love me anymore.”

I roll my eyes. “Seriously? Eleven months, Reggie. Eleven months of emotional whiplash, me feeling insecure and insane while you were off sleeping with someone else. Why would I still love you after you put me through that?”

“Because love doesn’t stop just because I hurt you. Fine, maybe you’re still angry, but . . . you love me.”

I look him in the eye. “I don’t.”

“Amelia, listen to me. I understand you want to be done with this—”

“Then let’s be done with it.”

“We’re making a mistake.”

I curl my hands into fists until my fingernails bite into my palms. “We’re not.”

“Just let me come in for a minute.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

As I go to shut the door, he pushes it back open and reaches for me. I don’t react in time to stop him from taking my arm. His grip is familiar, like his voice or cologne. “Stop,” I say as my heart skips.

“Jesus, relax.” He turns me around to zip up my dress. “It’s been bothering me.”

Even as adrenaline diffuses through me, goose bumps light over my skin when he trails his knuckle up my spine. He knows my tender spots. How to put me on edge. How to get me to yield.

“Why so tense?” he asks, kneading one of my shoulders.

“Let go of me.”

“Aw, come on. Don’t be like that. I’m massaging you, not trying to break your arm for God’s sake.”

I search for the words my therapist, Dianne, always says: Be firm, be confident. You don’t owe him anything. “Reggie, don’t touch me. I’m not your wife anymore, and even if I were, that doesn’t give you the right.”

He removes his hands, showing me his palms as if I’m an animal on the verge of lashing out. “All right, fine. No need to get dramatic. Where are you going?”

I turn back around, brushing my hands down my dress. “Midtown.”

“Need a date?”

“No. It’s a work thing.”

“Ah,” he says. “A work thing. No surprise there.”

He used to find my dedication to work endearing. He valued it. He brought me dinner on the nights I stayed even later than he did at his job, and we ate picnic-style in my office. When I was really stressed, he surprised me with spa appointments. Avec didn’t turn a profit for a while, but he never pressured me about the money he’d invested. I was exhausted and crabby most of that time—and he put up with it without complaint. It wasn’t until things started going well for me that he strayed.

“What are you here for?” I ask, taking a step back. “Really?”

“I told you. I’ve given it time like you asked me to, and I still feel the same. I don’t want to fight anymore. I want us both to keep the apartment and the business, because I want us to make this work.”

“What do you think has changed?”

“Me. I have. Can’t you tell?”

I look him over. He knows I can. I’m not blind and the difference is too great not to notice.

“I quit drinking and I’m going to the gym. Hell, I even took a vacation.” He studies my face as he adds, “I ended things with Virginia, but you knew that.”

Just her name—Virginia—makes my stomach flip. “I don’t care if you won the Nobel Prize,” I say. “You cheated on me.”

“I was an idiot. I’ve done a lot of thinking. With avec, you needed me—not just my money, but me. Then, things clicked, and that stopped.”

An admission like that from him is a breakthrough of sorts. I’m certain he couldn’t have come to it on his own, which means he’s likely talking to someone—a step forward for someone who doesn’t believe in therapy. I know, because I tried to get him to go when we were together.

“I know what you’re doing,” I say, unaffected by his progress. After my own therapy and picking apart infidelity with many scorned friends, I could write a book on the behavior of a cheater. “You’re trying to turn the blame on me. I wasn’t what you needed, therefore you had to look elsewhere.”

“You’re projecting your insecurities onto me,” he says, and now I know he’s also been working with someone. “I never blamed you. Once you found out about Virginia, I took responsibility. I’m just trying to tell you why I did it so you can see how I’m different now.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

“I know what I’m getting into this time. Avec will always be your top priority, but I’d rather come in second place than not at all.”