"What you said about kids... you made me feel like I wasn't good enough for you. You... hurt me," he says instead.
My mouth goes slack, trying to find the right words. Then I just mutter, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"You really don't want to have my children?"
I look at him, absolutely torn, because everything in me screams to not add fire to his meltdown, but I can't pretend anymore.
"Actually, Richard—"
"Everything I do is always for you. I even moved here for you," he says sadly.
I tense. Okay, tonight he’s chosen revisionist history.
“We didn’t move because of me,” I remind him, trying to sound calm. “You wanted to move for work. You kept talking about it for six months, so don't put it on me."
He pulls his hand, scoffing like I've insulted him.
“We moved,” he drawls in that condescending cadence he saves for moments like this, “because Lydia was worried sick about you, and so was I. You were screaming in your sleep everynight. Therapy wasn’t working. You didn't even want to get out of bed. So I took the bullet—even though Elaine warned me it was career suicide."
For a beat, I just stare at him because this is news to me, and the idea of the three of them discussing my mental health behind my back makes me feel sick.
“Then why didn’t you just say that?” I mutter dryly, finally.
“Because I knew you’d react like this,” he clips back. “Defensive. Distant.”
“Well, how would you feel if your closest people turned you into a checklist of symptoms? Something to be treated?” I snap.
Richard blows a long breath, a tired expression spreading over his face.
"How did we even get to that? It doesn't matter. What matters is that I love you," he says, softening and taking my hand back. "I'm sorry if I said anything mean at lunch. I just want you to be happy. I know Lydia didn't give you the best childhood, but I'm trying to show you that love can be stable. That we can be happy. That's why I proposed it."
I swallow hard, unsure what to say to that.
Richard doesn't even know my mother—he knows only the older, curated version. But the fact that he's aware of my broken relationship with her and wants to make me happy makes me feel even worse.
His phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out, screen turned my way, so I glimpse about thirty unread messages,which is unheard of because he always clears them away.
I briefly catch one:Did you move it from the account?
"Richard, you should tell me what's happening," I say, my voice more firm than ever.
He flips the screen on the counter and looks at me heavily. "Em, I'm scared. This is the worst phase of my life."
The fact that he saysscaredrattles me because Richard doesn't do fear—he calculates, commands, and bulldozes.
Tonight fear has moved into his eyes, though, and it looks permanent.
I curl my arm around his shoulder and press a kiss against his hair. "I'm here. Tell me about Piper. Let me in."
He shakes his head. "No. I can't. Trust me. I'm doing this to protect you."
"But I should know as your—"Wife. I can't even say the word.
Richard notices and narrows his eyes, more thrown off than angry. "Do you love me?"
I swallow and give him a broken smile. "I do love you."
It's not a lie, because I do... in my own, fractured way. The jury would find me guilty, and I wouldn't even object, but still, I'd go to the gallows with this truth on my tongue that I love Richard.
