Nothing But This

by Anders, Natasha

  Libby could relate.

  “I’m going to divorce him,” Libby said without preamble after entering the office.

  Tina looked up at her. “Oh?”

  “It’s time for us to move on with our lives.”

  “Libby . . .”

  “Don’t argue with me, Tina,” she said, inserting as much firmness as she could into her voice.

  “I had no intention of arguing with you; I just wanted to ask if you’re sure. He seems so different. Genuinely contrite.”

  “A contrite man would have apologized by now,” Libby said, her voice wobbling alarmingly.

  Tina’s eyes widened in surprise. “Wait, are you telling me he hasn’t apologized at all?”

  “Oh, he has apologized for so many things, since coming here. But not for accusing me of sleeping around on him, not for his emotional abandonment during my pregnancy, not for the way he treated Clara and me in the hospital that night. I’m not even sure if an apology would make a difference at this point. But he should at least have made one, right? He’s still the same entitled, arrogant Greyson Chapman. He expects the world from me, for very little in return. And I’m done. He and I can work out a custody agreement that suits both of us. I want to keep it amicable for Clara’s sake. I know he’ll want that too.”

  “I’m so sorry, Libby,” Tina murmured, getting up and rounding her desk to hug Libby.

  Libby accepted the embrace gratefully, leaning on her friend for emotional and moral support.

  “When will you talk to him about the divorce?” Tina asked.

  Libby stepped out of the other woman’s arms and shrugged. “I’m not sure. Soon.”

  “You know I’ll support you all the way.”

  “I know, Tina. I love you for that.”

  The following evening, as Greyson was preparing for his football game with Spencer Carlisle and the rest of his cobbled-together team, his phone chimed.

  Hey, I was wondering if you were free for dinner tomorrow night. It was from Olivia.

  Greyson felt an anticipatory twinge in his chest. If he were one for fanciful notions, he would probably have described it as his heart leaping. He tamped down his excitement, relieved to hear from her after yesterday’s disagreement.

  I’m free.

  Great. I’m going to a baby shower tomorrow afternoon, but what about meeting after that?

  Five?

  Sounds good. I’m going to ask Tina to watch Clara, so I’ll meet you at Harris’s place. Can you ask Harris if he’d be willing to babysit with Tina?

  If she was asking Greyson to ask Harris, that meant she was probably still mad at the other man. A year ago, Greyson might have celebrated that fact, but now it disturbed him. Harris had been quiet and depressed since his argument with Martine on Tuesday, and Olivia’s continued anger was probably adding to his depression. Greyson had tried to engage with his brother over the past week, but Harris had been uncommunicative. Unusual for him.

  I’ll ask him. I’m sure he’ll be happy to.

  Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.

  I’ll drive us to dinner.

  Not necessary.

  Makes no sense going in two cars.

  Fine! I’ll see you then.

  He grinned and sent her a thumbs-up emoji. He was of the opinion that it was a lazy way to communicate. But he felt curiously ebullient after the exchange, and it was an impulsive act.

  He stared at the yellow thumb for a long moment after it was sent and, emboldened, threw all caution to the wind to follow it up with a smiley emoji.

  He waited for a moment, but while he could tell she had seen it, she didn’t respond.

  No matter—she wanted to have dinner. That was a good sign. It meant she was willing to talk. Willing to spend time with him away from the usual places.

  He panicked for an instant when he realized that he had no idea where to take her. His only options here were Ralphie’s and MJ’s, both of which were closed on Sundays.

  He would figure it out. He’d ask Brand or Spencer when he saw them later. They were both in relationships; they would know of good places to take a woman for dinner.

  “What is this place?” Libby asked in horror the following evening. She’d known they would have to head to a neighboring town for dinner and had been expecting Knysna. But he’d driven through the center of Knysna toward the long road that cut through the tidal estuary. And then toward the island at the other end of that road.

  He had parked outside a cozy-looking lodge situated right beside the lagoon.

  “Spencer Carlisle told me about this restaurant. He says the food’s great and it’s quiet enough for us to talk.”

  This was definitely not what Libby had had in mind for their discussion. It looked too intimate and too romantic. An opinion reinforced by the table the young waiter led them to. It was situated in a quiet corner, overlooking the dark lagoon.

  Maybe he hadn’t known how romantic this place would be. Maybe Spencer Carlisle had assumed Greyson wanted to bring her someplace like this. A natural assumption for the man to make. After all, Greyson was a married man asking another married man for his opinion on dinner venues.

  But Greyson didn’t look at all uncomfortable with his venue choice. Instead he looked a little too pleased with himself.

  “According to the online reviews, the food here is terrific,” he said, unfolding his napkin and draping it over his lap.

  Libby didn’t respond to that, reaching for her own napkin. The awkward small talk on the thirty-minute drive here had been uncomfortable enough.

  “I’m sure it is,” she murmured, reaching for the menu for lack of anything better to do.

  “Not as good as your food, I’m sure,” he said with a smile, and she returned the smile with a troubled one of her own.

  What did he think this dinner was about? After their argument on Friday, surely he had put two and two together? But this was . . . it felt wrong.

  The waiter returned for their drink order, and when Greyson asked for the best cabernet sauvignon on the menu, Libby cringed a little inside. He seemed to be pulling out all the stops, and she wasn’t sure what to say.

  “We were hammered by the younger team last night,” he said, referring to the football match Daff’s husband had arranged for his at-risk teens. The kids had played against the adult team. MJ’s had catered the event. Another of the brilliant new marketing strategies Tina and Daffodil Carlisle had dreamed up to bolster business. They would be providing refreshments and meals for a few key local events.

  “Oh?” she prompted him, wanting to keep him talking while she tried to figure out what the hell was going on here.

  “Yes. Six goals to our three. I scored two of those goals, by the way.”

  Was that a boast? Was he trying to impress her? “That’s great.”

  The waiter brought their wine and asked if they were ready to order an appetizer. Libby picked something at random; her mind was racing, and she wasn’t really concentrating on the menu. She mumbled her way through most of the conversation, while he enthused about the restaurant, praised the food, and kept complimenting her on arbitrary things. Her hair, her clothes, her fricking meal choices.

  She attempted to bolster her courage with the wine, absently noticing that Greyson didn’t touch his wine at all, sipping from his water instead. They were halfway through their main course when he reached for her hand.

  She snatched it out of his grasp and hid it beneath the table. Her entire body was trembling in shock and horror.

  Damn it.

  “Greyson . . . you seem to have the wrong idea about tonight.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Greyson had already figured out that he’d made a few inaccurate assumptions about tonight. However he had held out some hope that perhaps he could salvage the evening. But Olivia had been uncomfortable and on edge since they’d set foot in the restaurant, and nothing he had said or done had changed that. It was becoming increasingly evident that Olivia was
not here to mend fences and start anew.

  She reached for her purse, a large “mum” bag. The type that could stash just about anything. He eyed it with trepidation, not sure he wanted to see what she had in there.

  She withdrew a folded white A4 envelope and put it on the table between them. Greyson glared at it like it was a coiled snake, and she pushed it toward him. He moved his hands to the edge of the table, not wanting to touch the thing. Not wanting to know what was in it.

  “Greyson, take it.”

  “What is it?” he asked, and she sucked her lower lip into her mouth and nervously gnawed on it. Her eyes, wide and anxious, spoke volumes.

  “You know what it is,” she said softly.

  He blinked a few times before looking away and silently staring out into the darkness. The lagoon reflected the lights from passing boats and homes on the shore. It was beautiful here. Exactly the right place for a reconciliation. But this wasn’t that.

  This was the beginning of the end.

  He sighed softly. He was lying to himself again . . . the end had started nearly five months ago with the birth of their beautiful daughter. No, much further back than that. That evening when she had smiled at him with love, hope, and excitement in her eyes and told him she was pregnant.

  She had hugged him, and his arms had closed around her automatically. While she had enthused about their baby—about the type of parents they would be—he had sat there feeling numb, shocked . . . betrayed. Hating her. Hating how vulnerable he felt. Resenting the baby and what he thought it meant.

  That was when it had ended for them. When, instead of assuming the doctor had misdiagnosed him all those years ago, he had believed his wife had cheated on him. With the only other man he knew she saw on a regular basis.

  “Why don’t you tell me anyway,” he invited her. Wanting to be wrong. Knowing he wasn’t. But he couldn’t bring himself to touch that envelope, to see for himself.

  “I want a divorce,” she said. Her voice held the slightest tremor, and her chin was wobbling. “I had the papers drawn up months ago. When I didn’t think you were interested in Clara. So we’ll have to change a few things. We have to discuss shared custody.”

  She was being generous; she could so easily deny him custody. He would fight her, and he would win . . . but she could have made it difficult. Instead, she was trying to be reasonable. Trying to be fair.

  “I don’t want a divorce,” Greyson said, keeping his voice level and low. “It won’t benefit either of us. We can still have a good marriage, Olivia. We’re physically compatible; this week has proved that. We’re still fantastic in bed together. And Clara would benefit more from a stable family unit. Two parents and one home.”

  “Greyson, too much has happened between us. I don’t think continuing with this sham of a marriage would be healthy for any of us. You don’t love me. I knew that when we married, but I was foolishly optimistic. I thought we could make it work. That love would grow between us.”

  “Olivia, last week I asked you why you married me if you didn’t think I loved you.”

  “I didn’t think you didn’t love me, Greyson. I knew you didn’t,” she corrected him, and it felt like she was hedging.

  “Why did you marry me?”

  “Maybe I didn’t think love was that important.”

  “I don’t believe that’s true.”

  “So what do you want to hear, Greyson? Do you want to hear that I was in love with you? That I thought that even though you didn’t love me, you cared about me enough for us to make a go of it?”

  “Is that true?” he asked past the huge lump in his throat, and she compressed her lips and glared at him mutely.

  “What difference does it make anyway? How does it change the ugly reality of our situation?”

  “I hate that I hurt you, Olivia. It was never my intention to hurt you. I thought we could have a happy marriage. I still do.”

  “You’re delusional,” she said with a curt shake of her head. “You married me under so many false pretenses I lost track of all the lies and deception.”

  “I was always honest with you,” he protested.

  “Really, Greyson?” she scoffed.

  He winced, feeling like a dick for not recalling his biggest deception. But he didn’t consider it an actual deception, not when it had always been his intention to tell her about it.

  “I was going to tell you about the infertility thing. But it became moot really quickly.”

  “This is getting us nowhere. Take the papers. Have your lawyers look at them and make revisions as you see fit. I’m not leaving Riversend, but I’m sure—when Clara is a little older—we can have her spend weekends and holidays in Cape Town with you. While she’s a baby, she’s obviously more dependent on me, so you’ll likely see her less, but I’ll send pictures, and you can visit and . . .”

  “I’m not leaving,” he interrupted.

  “What?”

  “I’m not leaving Riversend either.”

  “But the company . . .” She looked completely flustered by his statement, and Greyson was feeling petty enough to take great pleasure in her confusion.

  “The current arrangement is working fine. I’ll just need to reshuffle a few things, perhaps move my PA here and set up an office in town. But aside from a few meetings in Cape Town once or twice a month and some infrequent trips abroad, I can run the business as easily from Riversend as I could in Cape Town.”

  “But to what end?”

  “My daughter is here,” he said, offended that she’d even ask. “You’re here.”

  “Stop factoring me into your decisions, Greyson. I want a divorce. Don’t make it harder than it needs to be.”

  “Olivia, if you loved me once, maybe you could love me again. Especially if I’m better. If I’m different. I promise you I can change.”

  “Greyson.” Her voice gentled, and that, more than anything else, scared the shit out of him. “You don’t have to change. We were too mismatched, never meant to be together. Let’s just . . .” She shook her head, and her eyes brightened with tears. “Let’s just end this with dignity and grace? Okay? Please?”

  “Olivia,” he whispered, his chest tight. He felt panicked and so terrified. He was doing this all wrong. But he didn’t know what to do or say to make it right. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know you are, Greyson,” she said, still so gentle. “Now please, take me home.”

  The drive back was conducted in absolute silence. Greyson, who had felt so hopeful on the drive to Knysna, could think of nothing more to say. Olivia kept her head turned away from him, staring out of the passenger window and into the darkness. When he got to the house, he turned to look at her, but she kept her face averted and unbuckled her seat belt.

  “Can I . . . do you still want me to take care of Clara?” he asked, afraid of hearing her answer. Her head snapped up, and he could see the gleam of her eyes in the dark interior of her car.

  “Yes, of course, Greyson. I never intended to limit your access to Clara.”

  He swallowed heavily and nodded.

  Not his access to Clara, only to Olivia herself.

  “Well, I’d better go and see how they all got along. Tina was terrified of looking after Clara tonight, but she really wanted to give it a go. But I figured she would need some support. That’s why I wanted Harris to help, but he and Tina haven’t exactly been getting along this week. Part of me kind of hoped that putting them in a room together would encourage them to talk about some stuff. Tina has something vitally important she needs to tell Harris. And I was kind of hoping they’d . . .” Her voice tapered off, and she sighed softly, not finishing her sentence.

  Greyson nodded again, unable to summon up any interest in what Martine had to tell Harris. Not right now.

  “Are you coming in to say good night?” she asked, and he shook his head.

  “Give Clara a kiss from me,” he said, proud that his voice emerged so evenly. This time she was the one to nod. She grabbed
the door handle, hesitated, and turned toward him again.

  “I wish . . . ,” she began, before sighing. “Never mind. It’s not important. Good night, Greyson.”

  He got out of the car before she did, not following his usual instinct, which would have been to help her out of the car. He needed to get away from her as soon as possible. Before he said or did something to embarrass himself. He hastened to the front door and let himself in without looking back to see if she had followed him up the porch steps.

  The door swung shut with a louder bang than he had intended, and he flinched when he heard Clara’s wail through the thin walls.

  “Shit,” he groaned, feeling like an asshole. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  He stumbled to the sofa and sat down in the darkness, hating himself for making his baby cry. For making his wife cry . . . for fucking nearly making his brother cry all those months ago.

  Greyson once again felt completely lost and alone, and he wasn’t sure how to find his way back home.

  He didn’t know how long he sat there before the front door creaked open and Harris stepped in.

  “Greyson?” the other man called tentatively, and Greyson shut his eyes, not really in the mood to rehash his evening with Harris. He felt like a fool. Just this morning he had bragged to his brother that he and Olivia were going on a date. He had been foolishly optimistic. And now his world had come crashing down around his deluded head.

  Harris stepped around the sofa. “Grey?”

  A lump formed in Greyson’s throat at the sound of that nickname. Harris used to call him that when they were kids, until Greyson had decided that it was too immature and demanded that his brother call him by his full name. He’d been such a smug little asshole. Still was, really. But he loved hearing that nickname on his brother’s lips again. It felt familiar, affectionate . . . and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what the hell he had found so offensive about it before.

  “Olivia wants a divorce,” Greyson said, as unemotionally as he could.