Liam smirks. “I wonder what changed your mind,” he says after a moment. “I was never fooled, Flannery. I know you didn’t fuck her on your wedding night.”
I pause. This is certainly not a moment where honesty is the best policy. And that’s a lie I’m willing to keep up forever, to protect both myself and Maeve.
“Of course I did,” I say finally.
Liam looks at me. “Of course you did,” he finally agrees, and opens the door.
I step out into the gray Dublin morning, and the door closes behind me.
—
On the way back to the apartment, I keep thinking about what Liam said, about not asking for a divorce. The expectation he’d had that I would. That I’d want to be rid of her if I had any leverage at all to do so.
I've already fucked it up. I know I have. The things I said to her, the way I pushed her away, the way I made her feel like she was a burden, a punishment, something I had to endure.The way I hurt her over and over again because I was too much of a coward to admit what I was feeling. If I had to guess, I’ll probably keep fucking up, again and again, and I’ll have to ask for her forgiveness more than once in the future.
She deserves better than me. She's always deserved better than me.
But I'm a selfish bastard, and I want her anyway.
I stand in front of the apartment door for a long moment before I walk in. I don't know what I'm going to say to her. I don't know how to tell her that I want her to stay, that I want to try to be the husband she deserves, that I want a chance to make this marriage real.
I don't know how to tell her I love her when I'm not even sure I know what love is.
The apartment is quiet when I let myself in. For a moment, I think maybe she's still sleeping, and I feel a rush of relief at the thought of more time to figure out what to say.
Then I hear movement from the bedroom. I walk down the hall to the cracked-open door, and my heart stops.
Maeve is packing.
She's got her suitcase open on the bed, and she's carefully folding clothes and placing them inside. I can’t see her face at first; she’s too focused on her task.
She looks up a moment later, and her expression is carefully neutral. "You're back."
I can't speak. I can't move. I just stand there watching her pack her things.She’s preparing to leave me.She could be packing under the assumption that now that it’s over, we’re both going back to Boston, but some instinct tells me that’s not what this is. My chest feels like it’s about to crack open.
What else did I expect? This is what I told her to do. This is what I said I wanted. I pushed her away, told her this marriage was a mistake, made it clear I didn't want her. Even aftereverything changed, after she must have known that not wanting her was always a lie, I still told her that she was a punishment. That the Council forced me to marry her.
Now she's leaving, and I can't fucking breathe.
"How did it go?" she asks, turning back to her packing. "With the Council?"
I force myself to speak. "Fine. I reported Brennan's death. They're satisfied."
"Good." She folds another shirt and places it in the suitcase. "That's good."
I should tell her she doesn't have to leave. I should tell her to stop packing, to stay, to give me a chance. I should ask her if we’re both going back to Boston or if she’s planning to fly back alone. But if this is what she wants, if she's finally had enough of me and my bullshit, then I won't stop her. I won't trap her here when she wants to go.
Even if it kills me to let her leave.
"How long will the divorce take?" she asks, her voice carefully neutral, still not looking at me. "I know it's more complicated now that we've... since we slept together."
I feel as if I’ve been punched. It takes me a moment to get the words out. "I didn't ask for one.”
She stops, a sweater halfway to the suitcase, and turns to stare at me. "What?"
"I didn't ask for a divorce."
"But..." She's looking at me like she doesn't understand, like I'm speaking a foreign language. "That's what you wanted. You said?—"
