“With few exceptions?” Clint asks this clear-eyed, like he really wants to know.
“I’ve been propositioned, of course. And had moments of awkwardness, occasionally, but I’ve never been overpowered.” I taste the wordoverpoweredonly after it has left my tongue. Unfortunate phrasing.
“I would hope not!” He furrows his brow at me.
He will never truly know what it is like to be a woman in the career I love. Most days it’s worth every hassle. Some days, those hassles are harder to shake free from. I was coming back from a late dinner at the Impact Conference when, in the hotel lobby, an advisor with a loose tie and even looser tongue grabbed my arm and playfully dragged me to his table to introduce me to his very drunk colleagues. He held me there, asking questions about my childhood, my husband, and the color of panties I was wearing. At that point I yanked and spun. The pressure on my arm increased. His eyes grew dark. I would not be the one to decide when our conversation was over. I gritted my teeth and pulled away. It came right up to the moment when he would’ve had to physically and obviously force me to stay. He burst out laughing instead. The table joined him. I marched off. Late nights, flowing alcohol, and lack of diversity are bad combinations.
Clint walks to the bed and partially sits, partially droops up against the headboard.
I join him but keep space between us. “I’m known for being able to take care of myself.” I wonder if this is true. “Anyway, relationships. We—quote, unquote—sellour new funds to advisors, who are organized into teams, at firms like Meymack, and are managed by Wealth Management leaders. Forming a partnership is key. If I canget Wealth Management excited about our funds, maybe even before their competitors, doors open to the advisor teams. That’s what happened with Lucas. He was my doorman.”
Clint shifts toward me with his shoulder against the headboard. “Lucas?”
“He’s on Meymack’s senior leadership team, head of Wealth Management. He’s been there for a couple of years after spending the last decade out in San Diego at a large independent broker-dealer, doing about the same job. He has a wife, no kids, but does a lot of work with St. Jude Children’s Hospital.”
“Meredith, why are we talking about this Lucas guy?”
“Because he’s your Lucas,” I say.
Clint stares at me. He doesn’t move a muscle.
“Lucas Anderson. He changed his name from Hansel years ago. He’s a good—”
“No.” He lurches off the bed. “Better if you were having an affair.”
“Don’t say that.” As I crawl across the comforter to try to get closer to him, my foot gets caught in a fold, and I wrestle for a moment to free myself. This was not how I planned to tell Clint about his brother.
But that’s not true. I never did have a plan. Which has been the problem all along.
“This is the ultimate betrayal.” Clint glares at me. “You know what Lucas did to me, to my mother.”
“I know. I know.” I finally shake myself free and stand. “But, honey, she had pancreatic cancer. Back then, all the money in the world wouldn’t—”
“No. You don’t get to defend him. I was seventeen years old. Who had to figure out Medicaid and get doctors to accept her? I did. Lucas abandoned us. More than that. He took everything.” Clint glares at the ceiling. “I was forced to move out of the house while she was in the hospital.” His fingers claw at his face.
I want so badly to pull his fingers away, to absorb the hurt.
Instead, I watch my husband suffer.
“I’ve told you how she had to come home to that dirty, ugly apartment to die.” He shakes his head slowly as if he’s back there. “And she still asked for him.”
I stand in front of him. The kindest, cleverest, coolest man I’ve ever met, but I’ve never been able to help him heal these wounds that he reopens every year. How can we finally suture him up? I’ve tried so many ways. He has to be the one to hold the needle.
He speaks slowly. “I don’t want that man within a mile of you, of my family. I’ll get a restraining order if that’s what it takes.”
Another thing I haven’t told him. The suffocating “protection” that urged me to sign the legal order against Betsey continues to constrict.
I’ve strangled my family in the same way.
Without knowing the truth of what I’ve hidden, the invisible weight must have been bearing down on Clint. I take a deep breath and try one more time. “He wants to apologize. He wants to explain.”
“How, Meredith? How can you take his side?” The sadness in his eyes pulls at the sorrow consuming my chest.
“Not for him. For you. I want this for you.” I force myself not to reach out to him. “Your pain is eating you alive. You’ve chained yourself to unforgiveness.”
He blinks at me, but the misery remains.
The doorbell rings.
