The First Taste(40)

I’m taken aback to hear him say avec will always be number one. Will it? Can it? Every twelve-hour day I work passes quickly as I do my best to keep my head above water. Because of that, I rarely stop to think about the big picture. Is that what I want to be doing the rest of my life? Nearly drowning in details and day-to-day decisions? I don’t remember deciding that, but if I continue down this path, avec will be all I ever have.

I gave things up in exchange for a successful business. But with Reggie’s assumption that there’s no room at the top for anything other than work, I can’t help wondering if it was ever a mistake to choose avec over love. Not over Reggie, because he proved himself unworthy, but he’s right that I did put work before him any chance I got.

“I’m glad you ended things with her,” I say. “You shouldn’t be with someone who had no problem carrying on an affair with a married man for almost a year. But it doesn’t change my mind.”

His face falls. “I’m not asking you to forgive me on the spot,” he says. “But I want to start over. To put the past behind us and try to make this marriage work.”

“No. Your attempts to manipulate me won’t work anymore.”

“Manipulate?” He furrows his eyebrows. “I’m being honest.”

I never thought of Reggie as controlling until after I realized he’d been cheating. Somehow, he always managed to make me think his ideas were mine, even the little things, like choosing where to eat. My therapist grilled me one session just to get what she wanted—a simple, meaningless conversation over choosing where to have dinner.

“Where should we go?” Reggie had asked. “Anywhere you want. It’s your night.”

“How about the Italian place on the corner?”

“Sounds great. Their Bolognese is crap, but the rest of the menu is good.”

“Bolognese? That’s your favorite.”

“It’s fine. I’ll get something else.”

“I guess we could try the new place that opened on Seventh? The one you mentioned last week?”

“If that’s what you want,” he’d said, kissing my forehead. “Like I said, it’s your night.”

I wouldn’t have remembered that conversation on my own, but Dianne had known exactly what she was looking for. Once I’d relayed it to her, memories of other, similar conversations flooded me. Some as simple as that. Some more complicated, deep emotional betrayals I don’t think too hard about.

“I guess I don’t blame you for trying to manipulate me since I fell for it for years,” I tell him.

“That’s crazy, Amelia. Maybe I made a lot of mistakes, but I always loved you. I always tried to make you happy, even when I was with her.”

“Don’t come here again.”

“Or what? You have nothing over me. I own your apartment. Your business.” He looks me over. “I mean, if you think about it, I even own your body . . .”

I clench my teeth, even though I know he’s only trying to get under my skin. “Go to hell.”

“You own mine too. I have the paperwork. What good is a marriage certificate if it doesn’t prove we belong to each other?”

I’m seething, just like he wants. Reggie would often remind me his money afforded us a certain kind of lifestyle, but this is the first time he’s called me his property. In a way, I’m glad he’s saying it aloud. He’s been treating me like a possession since before he stared his affair. “I want out of this marriage.”

He smiles sweetly, as if I’m an indulgent child. “That will pass.”

“Let me buy avec from you and let’s be done with it.”

“We’ve been over this,” he says with a sigh. “I’m not giving up avec, because I’m not giving up you. You have no way out, muffie.” He retreats for the door. “Accept that so we can begin to mend.”

I open my mouth to argue, but it’s no use. We’ve been round and round on the subject. He may not be able to touch me anymore, but as long as he owns fifty-one percent of my business, he has one greedy hand in my most intimate place. That’s how he maintains control.

Reggie leaves, and I lock the door. In my bedroom, I pick up my clutch. I have a missed call from the car service. Perfect. If I miss the opportunity to network before the presentation because of my * ex-husband, I won’t be happy.

I return the call. “Miss Van Ecken,” a man answers. “Do you still need a ride?”

“Of course I need a ride,” I say. “What, am I supposed to walk?”

“If you like.”

My jaw tingles. I’ve had just about enough of the male species. “Very funny. I wonder if your supervisor will think so too. I’ll be down in five minutes—you’d better be there.”

I hang up the phone, slip it into my clutch, and sink onto my bed. Belatedly, my hands begin to shake. It’s been months since Reggie and I were alone together. Isn’t that enough time for me to have moved on? Why do the wounds Reggie left still feel fresh, even if I don’t love him anymore? I worry they always will be, but I don’t want him back. If I miss him, I don’t know I do. Whenever I catch myself thinking about him, I throw myself into work. The night my lawyer advised we start discussing what assets to let go of to move the divorce along, I stayed up until dawn creating a progress report for our newest client. I didn’t sleep until I wrote my lawyer back and told him to press on. Reggie shouldn’t be allowed to get away with making me feel all the things I did over the course of our marriage—worthless, crazy, objectified, unattractive, dense. He won’t get away with it. Not while I’m able to keep fighting.