Page 34 of The Marriage Blunder

The conversation shifted, grew easier, then grew dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with money.

He asked, “Are you planning to stay in New York?”

I looked out the window, at the duck pond going dark, and said, “I don’t know. My mom’s here, and I’m not sure she’d want to be anywhere else. But sometimes I think about moving. Starting over. It’s easier to be someone new when you’re not surrounded by the evidence of your old self.”

He took this in, then asked, “Are you trying to be someone new?”

The question hit harder than I expected. “I don’t know what I’m trying to be,” I admitted. “But I know what I don’t want to go back to.”

He was silent for a long time, letting that land. Then he said, “You don’t have to decide tonight.”

I smiled at that. “I wouldn’t know how.”

Another silence, but this one was better. We sipped our drinks. The light shifted, the pond going from blue to black to a reflection of the study itself.

He broke the quiet. “You mentioned Carmen. How’s your mother really doing?”

It was the kind of question people usually asked to be polite, to transition to a new topic. He meant it.

I told him the truth. “She’s tired. The treatment isn’t working like we hoped, and I think she knows it. She doesn’t complain, but I can tell.” I took a deep breath, then added, “Sometimes I wish she would just get mad about it. But she just goes quiet and pretends she doesn’t need anything.”

He said, “You don’t have to fix it. You just have to be there.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

There was a pause, and in that pause, something changed. I became acutely aware of how close we were sitting. His hand was on the cushion between us, his fingers drumming a slow, thoughtful rhythm. I watched the movement, the way it seemed to draw the air between us tighter.

I reached for my glass, and in doing so, my bare arm brushed the cuff of his shirt. Just a whisper of contact, but it was enough to make the hair on my arm stand up.

He went still.

So did I.

For a second, neither of us moved. The only sound was the faint tick of a clock on the wall, counting out the spaces between. He turned and looked at me, not blinking, just watching. I felt the look in every part of me.

I broke first, because I always did. I picked up my glass, tried to make a joke to diffuse the tension. “Is this the part where we sign the merger agreement?”

He smiled, but didn’t look away. “You’re allowed to be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” I protested, and then, “Okay, I’m a little nervous.”

He watched me for another few seconds, then reached over and, with the slowest possible movement, adjusted my bowtie again. It didn’t need adjusting, but he did it anyway, his fingers tracing along the edge and then down to my jaw, just resting there for a moment.

“You’re going to stop doing that eventually,” he said.

I swallowed, not sure what “that” was, but certain he was right. “Doing what?” I managed.

He withdrew his hand, slow and deliberate, and said, “Retreating.”

We sat in the silence that followed, and for the first time, I didn’t want to retreat. I wanted to stay exactly where I was, in the circle of lamp light, with the taste of whiskey and the warmth of his hand still on my face.

Eventually, he stood, and I did, too. He didn’t offer to walk me out. He just looked at me, and said, “Same time next week?”

I said, “Yes.”

He nodded, satisfied.

Adams was waiting in the entryway, coat in hand. He held the door for me. I nodded to him as I walked past and entered the elevator, taking it to the first floor. When I stepped out into the night, the car was there. The ride home was smooth, the driver silent. I stared out the window, at the city passing by in slow motion.