All Your Perfects(47)
He must work with Andrea. He probably wanted to warn her that I knew in case I flew off the handle and showed up at his office to kick her ass.
I wouldn’t do that. I’m not mad at Andrea. She’s not the one who made a commitment to me. She has no loyalty to me or I to her. I’m only mad at one person in this scenario and that is my husband.
The living room curtain moves. I debate ducking, but I know from experience what a clear view it is from the living room to our driveway. Graham sees me, so there’s no point in hiding. The front door opens and Graham steps outside. He begins to head toward my car.
He’s wearing the pajama pants I bought him for Christmas last year. His feet are covered in two mismatched socks. One black, one white. I always thought that was a conflicting personality trait of his. He’s very organized and predictable in a lot of ways, but for some reason, he never cares if his socks match. To Graham, socks are a practical necessity, not a fashion statement.
I stare out my window as he opens the passenger door and takes a seat inside the car. When he closes the door, it feels as though he cuts off my air supply. My chest is tight and my lungs feel like someone took a knife and ripped a hole in them. I roll down my window so I can breathe.
He smells good. I hate that no matter how much he hurt my heart, the rest of me never got the memo that it’s supposed to be repulsed by him. If a scientist could figure out how to align the heart with the brain, there would be very little agony left in the world.
I wait for his apologies to start. The excuses. Possibly even the blame. He inhales a breath and says, “Why did we never get a dog?”
He’s sitting in the passenger seat, his body half facing me as his head rests against the headrest. He’s staring at me very seriously despite the unbelievable question that just fell from his lips. His hair is damp, like he just got out of the shower. His eyes are bloodshot. I don’t know if it’s from lack of sleep or if he’s been crying, but all he wants to know is why we never got a dog?
“Are you kidding me, Graham?”
“I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “It was just a thought I had. I didn’t know if there was a reason.”
His first I’m sorry since he admitted to having an affair and it’s an apology unrelated to his infidelity. It’s so unlike him. Having an affair is so unlike him. It’s like I don’t even know this man sitting next to me. “Who are you right now? What did you do with my husband?”
He faces forward and leans back against his seat, covering his eyes with his arm. “He’s probably somewhere with my wife. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her.”
So this is how it’s going to be? I thought he’d come out here and make this entire ordeal a little easier to bear, but instead, he’s giving me every reason in the world to justify my rage. I look away from him and focus my attention out my window. “I hate you right now. So much.” A tear slides down my cheek.
“You don’t hate me,” he says quietly. “In order to hate me you’d have to love me. But you’ve been indifferent toward me for a long time now.”
I wipe away a tear. “Whatever helps you excuse the fact that you slept with another woman, Graham. I’d hate for you to feel guilty.”
“I never slept with her, Quinn. We just . . . it never got that far. I swear.”
I pause with his confession.
He didn’t sleep with her? Does that make a difference?
Does it hurt less? No. Does it make me less angry at him? No. Not even a little bit. The fact is, Graham was intimate with another woman. It wouldn’t matter if that consisted of a conversation, a kiss, or a three-day fuck-a-thon. Betrayal hurts the same on any level when it’s your husband doing the betraying.
“I never slept with her,” he repeats quietly. “But that shouldn’t make you feel any better. I thought about it.”
I clasp my hand over my mouth and try to stifle a sob. It doesn’t work because everything he’s saying, everything he’s doing . . . it’s not what I expected from him. I needed comfort and reassurance and he’s giving me nothing but the opposite. “Get out of my car.” I unlock the doors, even though they’re already unlocked. I want him far away from me. I grip the steering wheel and pull my seat up straighter, waiting for him to just go. I start the engine. He doesn’t move. I look at him again. “Get out, Graham. Please. Get out of my car.” I press my forehead to the steering wheel. “I can’t even look at you right now.” I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the door to open, but instead, the engine cuts off. I hear him pull my keys out of the ignition.
“I’m not going anywhere until you know every detail,” he says.
I shake my head, swiping at more tears. I reach for my door but he grabs my hand. “Look at me.” He pulls me toward him, refusing to let me out of the car. “Quinn, look at me!”
It’s the first time he’s ever yelled at me.
It’s actually the first time I’ve ever heard him yell.
Graham has always been a silent fighter. The strength of his voice and the way it reverberates inside the car makes me freeze. “I need to tell you why I did what I did. When I’m finished, you can decide what to do, but please, Quinn. Let me speak first.”
I close my door and lean back in my seat. I squeeze my eyes shut and the tears continue to fall. I don’t want to listen to him. But part of me needs to know every detail because if I don’t get the facts, I’m scared my imagination will make it even worse. “Hurry,” I whisper. I don’t know how long I can sit here without completely losing it.