Lincoln straightens up, his expression going dark.
He takes a deep breath.
“Look. If you don’t want the job, say you don’t want the job and keep it moving. I’m talking to you right now as your potential boss, not your ex-husband. As you said, we have nothing to do with each other. So, I get it. I hurt you a long time ago and you moved on. So did I.”
The moment he says that, something in me sparks, like someone struck a match right against the dry tinder in my chest.
“I need something from you andyouneed something from me. And that’s all this boils down to. It doesn’t have to be complicated. I’m not gonna fuck you. This doesn’t have to be that. And I assure you, I promise you, I will not touch you. I don’t deserve that. Even if I wanted to.”
“So youdon’twant to?” I ask.
Lincoln goes still. A shadow crosses his face.
“As we both know, Gabby, I’m a dog. I cheated on you. So clearly, I’m meant to fuck whatever’s in front of me, right? If it’s offered. And for me to have done that to you? You’re right. I couldn’t have cared about you that much. Even when I try to convince myself that I did. And I think I’m bad for you and we’re bad for each other in general.”
My eyes narrow.
“So I don’t want to put you through that ever again. And I don’t want to go through that. I’m not looking for a relationship.
I’m not lonely and thirsty for sex. I’m very busy. So you don’t have to worry about me pursuing you.
And half the time, I’m not gonna be home anyway,” Lincoln concludes.
If he meant this as some kind of reassurance, he failed miserably. All he managed to do was punch my already fragile self-esteem right through the floor and into the toilet.
But the one good thing is that he said he won’t be pursuing me.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel something ugly twist inside me.
Some disappointment.
Some pathetic little ache.
I want him to want me.
But clearly he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.
He wouldn’t have cheated if he truly wanted me.
“$65 an hour,” I say.
“All right,” Lincoln answers without hesitation.
Then he starts listing off the chores he has for me. After he’s done, I ask,
“How long—I mean, how many hours do you want me working?”
Lincoln thinks for a minute. “I was hoping that you would be here until I get home.”
“Okay. When are you home?” I ask.
“On the weekdays, late in the evenings. Around 10 p.m. Sometimes I try to make it home to feed Morris, but we’re doing a lot of work, a lot of overtime.”
“I know you love those,” I snark, staring at the ground.
Lincoln says nothing. Probably annoyed.
Good.
