by Raine Miller
“I don’t know.”
The fact that he just admitted that is enough to make my throat close. Professor West knows everything. Doesn’t he?
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier about Helen?” I ask.
“Because it was shitty. I didn’t want you to know about it.”
“You didn’t think I could handle it.”
“No. I wanted to protect you.”
“So you lied.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“By omission, yes, you did.”
For God’s sake. Our marriage is not supposed to have lies. My stomach roils with a surge of nausea.
“I told you everything, Dean,” I whisper, “because I knew you could handle it. I knew you were strong enough to work through anything with me.”
“Fuck, Liv.” He scrubs his hands over his face, tension cording his forearms. “I know.”
“But this whole time… did you think I wouldn’t do the same for you?”
“No, of course not. I just didn’t want you to.”
“I’m your wife! I want to know everything about you. I thought I did.”
“Liv…”
“Did you think I’d never find out the truth about Helen?” I pace a few steps away from him, my heart clenching. “Did you think you could keep it a secret forever? Especially when I brought up having children?”
“I don’t know what I thought.” He sits on the sofa and leans his elbows on his knees. He stares at the floor. “I wanted you, Liv. That was all I wanted. And I thought… I thought I was all you wanted.”
I swipe at my tears again. “You were.”
“You said you never wanted kids, and that was fine with me,” he says. “You’re right. We had it good. So good that I didn’t think we needed anything else.”
We had it good. We both used the past tense without realizing it.
“I’ve given you all I have,” I say, my throat closing over the words. “All I am. You know that. Why didn’t you do the same for me?”
“I did. The disaster with Helen was… it’s not important. Not to us.”
“How can you say that when it affected your response to having a baby with me?”
“What do you want me to do now, Liv?” Frustration steels his voice as he lifts his head to look at me. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It was in the past, and I didn’t want you to have to deal with another shitty thing. That was it. It had nothing to do with us.”
“Everything about you has to do with us.”
“I can’t change it, Liv! What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know.” My voice cracks.
We stare at each other. I see with sudden, sharp clarity exactly what our marriage has been. Dean has been in control of all the barbed-wire things that could hurt me. And I have been willing to let him be my shield, to keep the bad stuff away.
Except now the bad stuff is like quicksand beneath my feet, pulling me under, and my husband can’t rescue me from it.
The buzzer sounds, breaking the tight, strained air.
I go downstairs to collect the take-out order, but neither of us is hungry. I leave the containers on the table and go into the bedroom, closing the door. For a while, there is silence from the living room and then the sounds of a football game on TV.
Dean is gone by the time I haul myself out of bed the next morning after a sleepless night. I know he’s just gone to work, but for the first time ever I wonder what would happen if he didn’t come home.
CHAPTER 17
October 30
“Excellent, Liv.” Tyler takes another bite of my filet and nods with approval. “Very well-seasoned, perfect sear on the meat. The sauce is the right consistency. Maybe just a bit more tarragon, but overall delicious. Great job.”
Pleasure flows like light through me, dispelling the anxiety and dismay that have permeated the last week. I smile and cut off a slice of beef with my fork. He’s right. It’s crusty on the outside, tender and juicy on the inside with a nice tang of chives.
Tyler grins and gives me a pat on the shoulder. “See? You can do more than you think you can. That soufflé was your turning point. I’m really proud of you. And you should be proud of yourself.”
“I am.” It’s true. Two months ago, I never would have believed myself capable of turning out a delicious meal of porcini-encrusted filet mignon accompanied by fresh herb butter.
Next to me, my station neighbor Charlotte gives me the thumbs-up sign. I grin back at her and pack up the rest of the meal before starting to clean my station.
“Hey, Liv, could you stay after class for a few minutes?” Tyler asks. “There’s something I want to ask you.”
I ignore a twinge of unease. “Sure.”
My station is spotless by the time everyone else has left and the kitchen store, Epicurean, has closed. I hitch my satchel over my shoulder and approach Tyler at his station. The top few buttons on his chef’s jacket are unbuttoned, revealing the hollow of his throat and a half-circle of skin down to the top of a T-shirt beneath.
I pull my gaze from his throat to his face, forcing my voice to sound casual and breezy. “So, what’s up, Chef?”
“A TV crew is coming to film a segment at Julienne in December,” he says, gathering up his things and turning off the lights. “They’re doing a documentary about chefs who use local and organic ingredients. So for the segment about me, they want to mention the cooking class and interview a couple of my students. I was wondering if you’d be interested in participating.”
“Me? Really?”
“Really.” He holds the front door open for me. “You’ve improved a lot, Liv, and I think they’d have some interesting questions for you. Plus, you’re articulate and… uh, well… they want people who’ll look good on camera.”
That comment should deepen my unease, but instead I’m pleased. “You think I’d look good on camera?”
“Well, yeah.” In the dim parking lot, a flush colors his face. “You look good… you know, all the time, so you’d look great on camera.”
We pass his car and he stops to put his stuff in the trunk. After feeling so lousy for so long, I’m now intensely warmed by his compliments.
“Thanks.”
“So you’ll do it?” he asks as we continue to my car.
“Sure. Sounds like fun.” I open the passenger side door of my car and place my satchel and containers on the seat. “Will they want me to say nice things about you, though?”
“Wouldn’t hurt.” There’s a smile in his voice. “The question is, do you have nice things to say about me?”
I turn. He’s standing right behind me, too close, resting one arm against the car roof. Even in the light of the streetlamps, his eyes are very, very blue. I’m trapped between him and the open door of the car, but I don’t feel threatened. Just warm, almost sheltered.
“I have a lot of nice things to say about you,” I admit.
I am acutely aware that things are getting dangerous. That I should get in the car now and drive away.
But I don’t.
“Yeah? Like what?” He doesn’t move closer to me. He also doesn’t move back. He studies me, his gaze flickering down to my mouth and back up to my eyes.
“You’re a great teacher,” I say. “An amazing chef. You’re patient, confident, supportive. And you help your students believe in themselves.”
He looks at me for a moment, then shakes his head. “Wow. Tell that to the producer, and I might end up with my own show.”
“You deserve one.” I mean that, too.
“Thanks.” He moves a little closer.
I don’t back away, not that I could have even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. He puts one hand on the car door behind me and lowers his head.
I stiffen when his mouth touches mine. Confusion rises in me, warring with curiosity.
And interest. Yes.
His lips are gentle but unfamiliar, fumbling for a second before settling against min
e. For a moment, he doesn’t move and we stand there with nothing but our lips touching feather-light. Then he shifts, and the pressure increases.
I jerk away. The back of my head hits the edge of the car door.
Tyler stops and straightens, his gaze searching mine. I pull in a breath and just stare at him. He slides his hand to the back of my head and massages the place where I’d bumped it. His fingers are warm and strong. Pleasure unknots my tension, smoothes down my spine. Then he lowers his head again.
This time, I meet him halfway. Our lips touch, still soft. Because he is not much taller than I am, we fit together easily and without strain. Warmth begins to ease through my blood, washing away my lingering fear. He moves his lips lightly against mine, unthreatening, almost comforting. He tastes like chives and tarragon.
It’s nice. Very nice.
He slides his hands down to my hips and curls his fingers into the material of my skirt. After a moment’s hesitation, I rest my hands on his waist. I can feel the heat of his skin even through his chef’s jacket. So close to me, his body feels the way I’d imagined it—firm and solid.
My fingers tremble. Desire flickers low in my belly. The scents of the kitchen cling to him—melting butter, the fragrance of chopped herbs, sweet onions, ripe peppers, olive oil. It’s potent, delicious, sparking a hunger for more than just food.
Tyler doesn’t try to push things too fast, too far. He doesn’t press his body against mine or try to touch me beyond grasping my hips. His kiss is sweet, almost tender, and the sensation of it lights something within me that I thought had gone out.
I swallow hard, my hands tightening on his waist as I part my lips tentatively. His fingers flex in reaction as our tongues touch. It’s smooth and easy… too easy.
My heart pounds. He makes a noise in the back of his throat. Within seconds, our lips are pressing harder together, tongues tangling in an effortless rhythm.
A rhythm that makes me want him.
The realization hits me hard, cracking through the haze of lust. I freeze. My hands drop away from him.
He lifts his head and stares at me, his breath hard against my lips. He looks almost as shocked as I feel—not because the kiss happened, but because of how it felt.
I manage to get my hand up between us to ease him away. He steps back, rubbing a hand across his mouth.
“Liv.” His eyes fill with consternation. “I’m sorry. I—”
“No.” I can hardly get the word out. “Don’t apologize. It wasn’t your fault.”
“It’s just that… I mean, that first day of class, the way you were standing there… kind of forlorn and uncertain, and so damn pretty… I wanted to… I wanted to rescue you, you know?”
My throat closes over. Only one man in the world has ever rescued me.
“Stop, Tyler. Please.”
I want to say I’m married, but that would be unfair. He knows it, and I sure as hell know it, and yet we met each other in a kiss that was far easier than it should have been.
I reach out to put my hand on his chest, but stop before I touch him.
“I’d better go,” I say.
Tyler backs away while I close the passenger door and go around to the driver’s seat.
“Are you… uh, will you come back to class?” he asks.
I hesitate, but nod. “Yes. We’ll just… let’s forget this ever happened.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I don’t usually… I mean, I never…”
“Tyler.” My hand shakes as I start the car. “It’s okay. I’m not upset with you.”
But there are no words to describe how I feel about myself right now.
***
“That looks good, Liv.” Samantha Davis, the curator of the Historical Museum, stops beside the display case where I’m arranging a collection of pioneer cooking equipment. I dust off my hands and step back. “Once they get the glass back on, I’ll put up the wall text.”
“Great.” Samantha tilts her head and looks at me. “You know, we really have appreciated all the work you’ve been doing for us. Would you be interested in helping out with the Historical Society’s holiday festival? It’s more hours, but there are a few perks. Volunteers get tickets to some of the shows at the Performing Arts Center, and we have a fun party at Langdon House on Christmas Eve.”
“Sure. Sounds like fun.”
Samantha smiles. “I’ll tell Felicia to call you to set up a schedule.”
She heads back to her office, and I fuss with the display for a few more minutes.“Liv.”
Dean’s voice startles me. I turn to find him standing by the door, dressed in a suit and tie, his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers.
“Dean. Hi.” My palms start to sweat. I rub my hands down the front of my thighs and approach him. “What are you doing here?”
“Came to take you to lunch, if you’re free.”
“Um, sure. I just… I just need to finish up here and grab my stuff.”
“Okay. I’ll wait.”
I try to quell the nerves jumping around in my stomach as I put a few things away and retrieve my satchel from behind the volunteers’ desk.
It’s been two days since Tyler and I kissed each other in the parking lot, and I haven’t seen Dean much at all. He’s gone to work before I wake up, and we spend our evenings in separate rooms of the apartment.
Which, although that’s been par for the course lately, is now something of a relief since it’s allowed me to avoid the massive question of what the hell do I do now?
As Dean and I walk out into the bright fall sunshine, the movement of his body so familiar next to mine, I know I can’t avoid that question much longer.
“How were morning classes?” I ask.
“Good. Busy with grading midterms.”
“Midterms are over already?” I shuffle my feet to make the leaves crackle beneath my shoes. “Next thing you know, it’ll be Christmas.”
“Yeah.” He glances at me. “You want to go anywhere?”
“Not really. Why?”
“I was thinking we could take a trip somewhere for a week or two. Hawaii, Florida. Someplace warm.”
I’m a little surprised by this. Dean has always liked a cold, snowy Christmas.
“Uh, any particular reason?” I ask.
“Maybe it would help to get away for a while,” he says.
It’s the first time he’s acknowledged that we need actual help. Only he has no idea that I’ve made things even worse.
I mutter something noncommittal as we head into a café for lunch. Our conversation is casual and impersonal—work, students, local happenings. I tell him about the Historical Society’s holiday festival, and he tells me about the progress of the book he’s writing on medieval architecture. We discuss the weather.
Yeah. The weather.
After lunch, we walk back outside and stand on the sidewalk.
“Want a ride home?” Dean asks.
“No, I’m going back to the museum. I’ll walk.”
“Okay.” He glances at his watch. “So I’ll see you tonight.”
“Sure. Any ideas for dinner?”
“Make something from your class, if you have time,” he suggests. “Sounds like it’s going well for you.”
I wouldn’t say that, exactly. “I can make parmesan chicken.”
“Great.” He hesitates, then leans forward to brush his lips across mine. “See you later.”
I watch him go. He’s never hesitated before kissing me. Ever.
I work at the museum for a few more hours, then stop at the grocery store on the way home for the chicken ingredients. It’s an easy recipe, one of the first dishes Tyler taught us to make, and by the time Dean comes home the kitchen smells good and the chicken is almost done.
Our dinner conversation is almost a repeat of our lunch conversation, except that Dean compliments my cooking. Then he goes into his office while I clean the dishes and muster up the courage to do what I know I have to. The longer I wait, th
e harder it will be.
Maybe I shouldn’t tell him at all. A vindictive part of me wants to keep it a secret, the way he kept his first marriage from me. But I can’t do that.
For years, Dean has been my best friend, my confidante, the love of my life. We’ve fought for each other. My demons have cowered in the face of his strength. My secrets have always been safe with him.
Except this one is different.
I stand in the kitchen for a while, my heart pounding with nervousness. I try not to think about Tyler Wilkes, but of course that’s impossible because he’s the reason I have to make this confession in the first place.
And yet this is not about him at all. This is about me and my husband.
I shove thoughts of Tyler away and approach Dean’s office. My hand shakes as I knock on the closed door.
“Come in.”
I push the door open. Raw fear tightens my stomach. He’s sitting at his desk, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, papers and a thick book spread out in front of him. My eyes move almost involuntarily to the spot beside his computer where he has always kept a framed photo of me.
The photo is still there. Faint relief curls around my heart.
He looks up, his expression one of distracted concentration. It’s a look I’m not all that familiar with since I don’t often interrupt him when he’s working.
I swallow hard and run my hands over my arms.
“Dean.” My voice comes out tight, strained.
He frowns and swivels in his chair so that he’s facing me. My heart feels like it’s about to claw out of my chest.
“I… I need to tell you something,” I say.
He doesn’t speak, but his frown deepens. I want to sit because my legs are starting to shake, but there’s only one chair in the room and he’s in it. And I do not want to prolong this by suggesting we move to the living room.
So I grasp the doorjamb with one hand to steady myself. “I’ve always told you the truth, right?”
