“You really didn’t remember drinking brandy with me at that little bistro?” he says.
I hesitate briefly, considering how to respond.
“Not at first, but, as I said, I sort of do now.”
“Only sort of?”
I shrug, feeling a prick of irritation. “To be honest, Logan, those kinds of experiences are never fresh in my mind.”
“Because?”
God, does he really want me to answer that? My first instinct is to simply blame my memory lapse on exhaustion, but I’m still bristling enough from Lisa’s comments at dinner that I override my better instincts.
“Because once I start with a thought like that, I’m suddenly white-water rafting forward in time, landing somewhere I never imagined or wanted to be. You and meover.Divorced.Living on separate continents. So why go trolling through memories that will only take me someplace heart-wrenching in the end?”
He glances off briefly, clearly mulling over my response, and then looks back at me, his eyes nearly boring into mine.
“I didn’t end it, Bree,” he says bluntly. “You did. I asked for forgiveness and the chance to start again.”
I glance behind me, double-checking that there’s still no one in the lobby who could overhear.
“Forgiveness wasn’t the issue, Logan. Ididforgive you. You found your own way to deal with the pain. But your personal grief-relief strategy didn’t just leave me lower than I thought I could go, it meant I could never trust you again, so how was I—”
Quit while you’re ahead,I think, and then scoff at myself because this isn’t some game I want to win at.
“There’s really nothing more to add,” I continue. “We’ve been over this ground before. Good night.”
“Night.”
As soon as I’m in my room, I regret how harsh I sounded. Before I left Uruguay, I’d assured myself that my instinct to punish Logan had long been quelled—inviting him to stay at the chacra was proof of that, after all—and that I’d be able to stunt any resentment that reared its head this week. Well, I’ve been here only a day and a half and already failed at that. Logan, on the other hand, has been nothing but gracious and solicitous with me.
I’m fifty-three years old, and it’s time to stop acting like a Taylor Swift song.
Assuming he’s still in the parlor and not in bed with Lisa yet, I grab my phone and text him.
I’m sorry about laying on the guilt that way. I appreciate everything you’re doing.
Three little dots pulse for a minute, then disappear, like someone slipping out of a room without warning. But a minute later the reply comes.
Thanks. I know how hard this must be for you. See you tomorrow.
Chances are he wasn’t troubled by my comments anyway. He seems to be taking me in stride this week, letting my irritation and anger roll off his back. If the past is, in the words of the author L. P. Hartley, “a foreign country,” I’ve become that both literally and figuratively for Logan.
Against my will, I picture him in my mind, taking the last swallow of brandy and preparing to head upstairs to his room. Perhaps he’s eager for some makeup sex with Lisa. Logan was great at makeup sex—any kind of sex, for that matter—his people skills extending perfectly into the bedroom. He derived pleasure not only from satisfying his own coital needs but also making sure my hair was standing on end by the time we rolled onto our backs.
With Bas, I never sense his ego in bed with us, just his passion and generosity.
Though I’m even more desperate now for a bath, I’m too exhausted to bother. I drain the tub, quickly get ready for bed, and slip under the soft white duvet. I’m out within minutes.
By eight thirty the next morning, I’m on my way to campus again, this time to pick up the copies ofThe Musethat Handler put aside for me at the library. It’s something to do at least.
I try to let the walk relax me. It’s breezy today but a little warmer than yesterday, and the sun keeps threatening to burn through the film of pale-gray clouds. And yet for a reason I can’t define, I notice a brand-new hum of anxiety inside me, like the churr of an insect. Maybe it’s due to the meeting ahead with Halligan and the mystery guest he refused to identify.
By the time I near the library, it’s nine o’clock, and I place a call to Maya’s office. I’m not expecting to reach her directly, but I want to leave a message with her assistant, thanking her again for last night. To my surprise, I’m put through as soon as I identify myself.
“Bree, good morning,” she says warmly.
“Maya, hi. I won’t keep you, but I just wanted to say how much I appreciate the dinner you gave last night.”
