The Perfect Marriage(47)

He wondered if the in-person rule still applied in the smartphone era. Wouldn’t Stephanie prefer to hear the news by text rather than have to endure it in person?

Nonetheless, he suggested that they meet for a drink. That should have been a tip-off to Stephanie. Not dinner, as was their usual Friday-night activity. On the other hand, he said that he was tight for time because he had to see Owen right after. If she accepted that at face value, she’d be blindsided by what he was about to reveal.

He half expected (or maybe hoped) that Stephanie would decline. They hadn’t seen each other all week, and he held out some hope that was another sign she’d read. But she said she’d come straight from work, and they agreed to meet at six. Perhaps she thought he wanted to talk about James’s death, which he’d told her about over the phone when making their date.

Wayne arrived at 5:30 p.m. He selected a table that would allow him to see Stephanie enter—and provide quick egress when the deed was done.

When she walked in, the look on Stephanie’s face suggested that she was dreading this as much as he was. No smile of recognition when he waved, and she didn’t take off her coat when the coat-check girl asked for it. She clearly wasn’t expecting to stay too long.

He stood when she approached and gave her a peck on the lips to keep up appearances. As soon as he did, he realized how stupid that was. He wasn’t trying to maintain suspense here. The purpose of this get-together was so that they wouldn’t have any more dates.

As soon as Stephanie sat, the waitress arrived. While waiting, Wayne hadn’t ordered anything to drink, in case Stephanie didn’t show up. A half hour of him nursing an ice water had made the waitress particularly attentive.

“Give us a minute,” Stephanie said.

The moment the waitress left them, Stephanie said, “Let’s get this over fast, shall we?”

Well, at least she wouldn’t be blindsided.

“I’m sorry, Steph. It’s just that . . . I’ve got so much going on now, it’s not fair to you, really.”

She chuckled. “So this is really you thinking of me, then. Thank you for that, Wayne. As always, so considerate.”

He didn’t react to her sarcasm other than to say, “I’m sorry, Stephanie.”

“Yeah, me too. Not that it’s over. I think that’s for the best too. I’m sorry that . . . you know . . . that it never really started, in a way. I thought that enough time had passed for you to be over Jessica. That maybe you were ready to start your life again. You certainly talked a good game about it. But I think we both know that just wasn’t true.”

She waited for him to respond. Probably thought he was going to deny it. The only thing that occurred to him to say, however, was to repeat that he was sorry, and that would only escalate the situation.

“I . . . tried,” he said instead.

“I guess you did. At least as much as you could. In a weird way, as soon as you told me that Jessica’s husband was killed, I knew that our relationship was dead too. I know that sounds terrible. The man died and all. But I knew you would see it as some type of opportunity for you rather than as a tragedy for your ex-wife.”

She was right, but he wasn’t about to admit that. Then it occurred to him that her statement sounded like an accusation.

Could she be wearing a wire? Was that why she’d decided to come? To help the police?

“I . . . don’t think that’s true.”

He meant to issue a more forceful denial, intended for the police who were listening rather than for Stephanie, who was spot-on in her appraisal.

“Okay, then,” she said. “I guess we’ve come full circle.” She stood. “No reason to prolong this. Let me just say goodbye, tell you that I enjoyed . . . at least some of our time together, and wish you the very best.”

He stood too but didn’t move any closer to her. If she wanted to embrace, she’d have to make that move.

She didn’t. Instead, she turned on her heel and left the bar.



“I’m going to do it now, I think,” Owen told his mother that morning.

He’d come straight from Wayne’s house to the loft that morning and asked his mother for permission to stay home from school. “I’m not going to be able to concentrate on anything,” he’d explained.

At first Jessica said that he’d be missing so much school after the transplant that he shouldn’t be missing even more. Plus, James’s funeral was Friday, and he’d miss school that day too.

“Another day isn’t going to matter, Mom. Not in the big scheme of things.”

That argument had won the day, though Owen figured his mom had her own reasons for letting him stay home: she didn’t want to be alone.

“Are you sure you want to do it?” she asked, the beginnings of tears in her eyes.

“Yeah . . . I think maybe it’s better if I take some control over it, you know? And tomorrow I start chemo again, so I’ve got to do it today if I want to do it myself rather than have it happen to me.”

“Okay. I mean, if that’s what you want. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Nah. I think it’s a one-man job.”

“I’m so sorry, Owen. I know I say that a lot. It’s just that I don’t know what else to say, you know?”