So, I may have not so accidentally chosen my most boring dress: grey, knitted, long skirt, sleeves down to my wrists, everything tucked away. Not the girl who had been bouncing and burning in Nevada.
Partly because Richard would be pleased since he picked this dress, approving nod and all, and partly because I don't want him lusting over me.
I know the choreography of a "first date after a long time." Coffee, small talk, shared smiles, touching hands and then suddenly pressed into the guy's mattress, sharing gasps.
I've got stuff to figure out before we get to that point.
We slide into our favorite bistro like a rhythm long paused and for a moment I almost believe in ordinary. Beef Wellington for Richard, fig and goat cheese salad for me.
Back when we were dating, this was ritual. Now... I don't even know what it is now.
At least Richard's finally smiling.
He's retelling our engagement story, for the fiftieth time, like I wasn't there, but I let him because he loves it. Thinks it's every woman's dream, and he isn't wrong there.
The ring on my finger? A whisper of Jackie O's love. Similar style, same carat. I don't wear it most days, just my wedding band—partly because I'm scared I'd be the first person in the world to break diamonds, and mostly because I don't want my finger to be chopped off.
Richard holds my hand across the table, admiring the ridiculously huge emerald.
"Do you remember? I had this stone commissioned for youafter our third date.Third," he emphasizes, brushing his finger over mine. "I didn't want you to settle for less."
I smile and nod.
"Did you know we were going to end up married?" he asks.
I wonder if I should tell him the truth, then decide I can give him at least that. "Actually, I thought we would just date long-distance, and eventually forget about each other."
Richard shakes his head adamantly. "No. I was still in the taxi from your book-signing when I decided you were going to be my wife. I think I knew it from the first moment I saw you in that bookstore. Your smile was something else. Then I heard your voice, laughing at some stupid joke, and I was just done for you."
My eyes turn glassy with emotions. Good and bad kinds.
"I just had to wait a whole month for Seattle weather to cooperate," he jokes.
I manage to smile. "Yeah, I remember that." Like it was yesterday...
We were on his two-story yacht, surrounded by his friends and fizzling Dom Pérignon. Late at night, twenty couples dancing, cheek on cheek, and there I was, holding Richard's steady hand as he swayed me right in the middle, under that huge crystal chandelier, so everyone could see us.
Etta James croonedAt Last, Richard spun me around in my black sequin dress and when I turned, he was down on one knee, starry-eyed. He held my hand like I had easily overdone his lifetime of the most precious, refined things.
I felt so special, so in love with him. But the cruel twist wasthat I looked at his hand and saw Ben.
I wondered how I would feel if it was him on his knees. If I smiled more.
Then I blinked it away, forcing myself to see Richard again—all the things he did to prove he loved me—and I said yes.
My fork hovers over a fig and I realize I can't swallow. Every bite lodges somewhere between memory and conscience because he's holding my hand and has no idea what I've done.
Richard's eyes flick on the menu as if he's considering dessert—which I know he isn't because he eats them only from me when he knows they're low-cal—and I watch him.
This is my husband. I should tell him what happened. Maybe we could work through it. It will never happen again. Could he really not forgive me?
He catches me looking and lifts his head, so I give him a quick smile. He smiles back briefly.
And then he drops it: "I saw Ben today."
The lights behind my eyes go out instantly.
"You saw Ben? When? Why?" My voice sounds casual if casual meant clenching a live wire between my teeth.
