If You Only Knew(93)

“You deserve it, babe,” he says. “You deserve everything and more.”

Whatever. I can’t imagine Gus saying that. It’s too trite.

“Adam, you have to be done with Emmanuelle.” Her name is bitter in my mouth. “If I even suspect you’re not, it’s over between us. No more chances.”

“I am done, Rach. I swear. I swear on our—” girls, he’s about to say, but I cut him off.

“Don’t. Don’t ever swear on the girls.”

“Okay. But I’m really done. You mean everything to me, Rachel. I’ve learned my lesson.”

Why did you need to be taught, Adam? Why didn’t you know that already? “I don’t want you working with her. That’s too much to ask. Find another job.” I’m quite demanding, aren’t I? This New Rachel has some qualities to recommend her, after all.

“Okay. I will, babe. You’re right. I’ll talk to Jared tomorrow.”

“Good.” I drain my wine. “I’m whipped. Let’s go to bed.”

We don’t make love. But when I wake up in the dark, his arm is around me. I can’t tell if I’m glad about that.

* * *

We have one more session with our marriage counselor. Donna babysits—she thinks we’re going out to dinner. I don’t ask Jenny, as I usually do. I’m still furious with her. I recognize that this isn’t fair, but I need to be furious with someone. She can take it. She’s the tough sister, after all, treating me as if I’m too fragile to have a real life.

Again, I’m not being fair.

Adam tells Laney the story of his encounter with Jenny as if he’s in a bar, entertaining his workmates. She must have trained her face to be impassive, because her expression doesn’t flicker.

“How did you feel about that, Rachel?” she asks.

“I was very angry,” I say calmly. “I don’t like having my marital problems broadcast.”

“It sounds like Adam was the one broadcasting.”

“I was desperate,” Adam says. “I felt like if Rachel stayed one more hour with her sister, we’d never have a chance.”

“Why?”

“Because Jenny... She never liked me.”

I give him an incredulous look. “That’s not true.”

“Well. I think she was a little jealous of Rach and me. She had this protective thing going on with Rachel—not that you needed it, babe—and when I came along, I think she felt deposed.”

“Why would she feel deposed, do you think, Adam?”

“Because Rachel loves me more,” he says simply.

I don’t respond.

“I’m sure Jenny has very strong feelings about your affair,” Laney says.

“Look,” I interject, not wanting to talk about my sister. “The point is, Adam and I are staying together. I’m tired of talking about it.”

“Me, too!” Adam says with a relieved laugh.

“Okay,” she says, her tone measured and calm. “A lot of couples want to do just that—put the event behind them. What can happen sometimes is that you think the issue has been dealt with, and then something flares back up.”

I’m tired of flares. I never used to have flares.

She gives us the old therapist pause, waiting for one of us to speak.

Neither of us does.

She must read something in my expression. “If I can be of any further use, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” My tone is terse and unfamiliar even to my own ears. New Rachel in her sexy heels, bought in the city.

Like something Emmanuelle would wear.

* * *

Later that week, when the girls are at school and Adam’s at work, I go to Bliss. As always, the beauty of my sister’s work is a sensory shock—the gleam of fabric, the sweet beauty of a neckline, the glitter of a beaded bodice. Her talent is stunning, and this shop...it’s warm and welcoming and breathtaking all at once.

As is my sister. I owe her an apology.

“Hello, Doris Day,” Andreas says.

“Hello, Rock Hudson,” I answer. “Is my sister here?”

“She’s got an appointment in fifteen minutes. Kimber, as a matter of fact. But she’s free right now.”

Jenny appears on cue. “Hey!” she says, flushing. “Come on back.”

I go into the dressing room with her, where a huge muslin dress hangs against the wall. I sit on the couch—apricot satin, something I helped pick out an eon ago, it seems. “Jenny, I’m sorry,” I say.

“I didn’t push him, Rachel. I poked him, and he tripped.”

I nod.

“So you’re back together?” she asks, focusing on something over my head.

“Yes. We’re working through it. And we’re getting there.”

She can barely look at me, and a flash of Old Rachel, that stupid softhearted idiot, clamors to get out and beg her to hug me.

“Jenny,” I say, “I need you to be okay with that. I can’t have you hating my husband and the father of my children.”

“I get that,” she says. “But don’t punish me for knowing what I know. What you told me. I can’t help hating him.”