Slip of the Tongue Series: The Complete Boxed Set

by Hawkins, Jessica

  “Can I come in?” he asks.

  “No.”

  He drops his gaze over my dress. “Wow. You look stunning.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ll explain, but not in the hallway. Come on. This is my home too.”

  I laugh hollowly. “Not in the slightest. You lost the right to walk through this doorway when you brought her here.”

  He frowns. “Look, muffin—”

  “Reggie, I hate that nickname.”

  “You don’t mean that. It’s our thing.”

  “I never told you because I loved you, but I don’t anymore, so now I can be honest. It’s patronizing and sexist to reduce me to a baked good. And a fatty, top-heavy one at that.”

  He shakes his head, gaping at me. “I don’t believe that.”

  “Would you nickname a man ‘muffin,’ or any other pastry for that matter?”

  “Not that,” he says, waving a hand. “I don’t believe you don’t love me anymore.”

  I roll my eyes. “Seriously? Eleven months, Reggie. Eleven months of emotional whiplash, me feeling insecure and insane while you were off sleeping with someone else. Why would I still love you after you put me through that?”

  “Because love doesn’t stop just because I hurt you. Fine, maybe you’re still angry, but . . . you love me.”

  I look him in the eye. “I don’t.”

  “Amelia, listen to me. I understand you want to be done with this—”

  “Then let’s be done with it.”

  “We’re making a mistake.”

  I curl my hands into fists until my fingernails bite into my palms. “We’re not.”

  “Just let me come in for a minute.”

  “I don’t have time for this.”

  As I go to shut the door, he pushes it back open and reaches for me. I don’t react in time to stop him from taking my arm. His grip is familiar, like his voice or cologne. “Stop,” I say as my heart skips.

  “Jesus, relax.” He turns me around to zip up my dress. “It’s been bothering me.”

  Even as adrenaline diffuses through me, goose bumps light over my skin when he trails his knuckle up my spine. He knows my tender spots. How to put me on edge. How to get me to yield.

  “Why so tense?” he asks, kneading one of my shoulders.

  “Let go of me.”

  “Aw, come on. Don’t be like that. I’m massaging you, not trying to break your arm for God’s sake.”

  I search for the words my therapist, Dianne, always says: Be firm, be confident. You don’t owe him anything. “Reggie, don’t touch me. I’m not your wife anymore, and even if I were, that doesn’t give you the right.”

  He removes his hands, showing me his palms as if I’m an animal on the verge of lashing out. “All right, fine. No need to get dramatic. Where are you going?”

  I turn back around, brushing my hands down my dress. “Midtown.”

  “Need a date?”

  “No. It’s a work thing.”

  “Ah,” he says. “A work thing. No surprise there.”

  He used to find my dedication to work endearing. He valued it. He brought me dinner on the nights I stayed even later than he did at his job, and we ate picnic-style in my office. When I was really stressed, he surprised me with spa appointments. Avec didn’t turn a profit for a while, but he never pressured me about the money he’d invested. I was exhausted and crabby most of that time—and he put up with it without complaint. It wasn’t until things started going well for me that he strayed.

  “What are you here for?” I ask, taking a step back. “Really?”

  “I told you. I’ve given it time like you asked me to, and I still feel the same. I don’t want to fight anymore. I want us both to keep the apartment and the business, because I want us to make this work.”

  “What do you think has changed?”

  “Me. I have. Can’t you tell?”

  I look him over. He knows I can. I’m not blind and the difference is too great not to notice.

  “I quit drinking and I’m going to the gym. Hell, I even took a vacation.” He studies my face as he adds, “I ended things with Virginia, but you knew that.”

  Just her name—Virginia—makes my stomach flip. “I don’t care if you won the Nobel Prize,” I say. “You cheated on me.”

  “I was an idiot. I’ve done a lot of thinking. With avec, you needed me—not just my money, but me. Then, things clicked, and that stopped.”

  An admission like that from him is a breakthrough of sorts. I’m certain he couldn’t have come to it on his own, which means he’s likely talking to someone—a step forward for someone who doesn’t believe in therapy. I know, because I tried to get him to go when we were together.

  “I know what you’re doing,” I say, unaffected by his progress. After my own therapy and picking apart infidelity with many scorned friends, I could write a book on the behavior of a cheater. “You’re trying to turn the blame on me. I wasn’t what you needed, therefore you had to look elsewhere.”

  “You’re projecting your insecurities onto me,” he says, and now I know he’s also been working with someone. “I never blamed you. Once you found out about Virginia, I took responsibility. I’m just trying to tell you why I did it so you can see how I’m different now.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

  “I know what I’m getting into this time. Avec will always be your top priority, but I’d rather come in second place than not at all.”

  I’m taken aback to hear him say avec will always be number one. Will it? Can it? Every twelve-hour day I work passes quickly as I do my best to keep my head above water. Because of that, I rarely stop to think about the big picture. Is that what I want to be doing the rest of my life? Nearly drowning in details and day-to-day decisions? I don’t remember deciding that, but if I continue down this path, avec will be all I ever have.

  I gave things up in exchange for a successful business. But with Reggie’s assumption that there’s no room at the top for anything other than work, I can’t help wondering if it was ever a mistake to choose avec over love. Not over Reggie, because he proved himself unworthy, but he’s right that I did put work before him any chance I got.

  “I’m glad you ended things with her,” I say. “You shouldn’t be with someone who had no problem carrying on an affair with a married man for almost a year. But it doesn’t change my mind.”

  His face falls. “I’m not asking you to forgive me on the spot,” he says. “But I want to start over. To put the past behind us and try to make this marriage work.”

  “No. Your attempts to manipulate me won’t work anymore.”

  “Manipulate?” He furrows his eyebrows. “I’m being honest.”

  I never thought of Reggie as controlling until after I realized he’d been cheating. Somehow, he always managed to make me think his ideas were mine, even the little things, like choosing where to eat. My therapist grilled me one session just to get what she wanted—a simple, meaningless conversation over choosing where to have dinner.

  “Where should we go?” Reggie had asked. “Anywhere you want. It’s your night.”

  “How about the Italian place on the corner?”

  “Sounds great. Their Bolognese is crap, but the rest of the menu is good.”

  “Bolognese? That’s your favorite.”

  “It’s fine. I’ll get something else.”

  “I guess we could try the new place that opened on Seventh? The one you mentioned last week?”

  “If that’s what you want,” he’d said, kissing my forehead. “Like I said, it’s your night.”

  I wouldn’t have remembered that conversation on my own, but Dianne had known exactly what she was looking for. Once I’d relayed it to her, memories of other, similar conversations flooded me. Some as simple as that. Some more complicated, deep emotional betrayals I don’t think too hard about.

  “I guess I don’t blame you for trying to manipulate me since I fell for it
for years,” I tell him.

  “That’s crazy, Amelia. Maybe I made a lot of mistakes, but I always loved you. I always tried to make you happy, even when I was with her.”

  “Don’t come here again.”

  “Or what? You have nothing over me. I own your apartment. Your business.” He looks me over. “I mean, if you think about it, I even own your body . . .”

  I clench my teeth, even though I know he’s only trying to get under my skin. “Go to hell.”

  “You own mine too. I have the paperwork. What good is a marriage certificate if it doesn’t prove we belong to each other?”

  I’m seething, just like he wants. Reggie would often remind me his money afforded us a certain kind of lifestyle, but this is the first time he’s called me his property. In a way, I’m glad he’s saying it aloud. He’s been treating me like a possession since before he stared his affair. “I want out of this marriage.”

  He smiles sweetly, as if I’m an indulgent child. “That will pass.”

  “Let me buy avec from you and let’s be done with it.”

  “We’ve been over this,” he says with a sigh. “I’m not giving up avec, because I’m not giving up you. You have no way out, muffie.” He retreats for the door. “Accept that so we can begin to mend.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but it’s no use. We’ve been round and round on the subject. He may not be able to touch me anymore, but as long as he owns fifty-one percent of my business, he has one greedy hand in my most intimate place. That’s how he maintains control.

  Reggie leaves, and I lock the door. In my bedroom, I pick up my clutch. I have a missed call from the car service. Perfect. If I miss the opportunity to network before the presentation because of my asshole ex-husband, I won’t be happy.

  I return the call. “Miss Van Ecken,” a man answers. “Do you still need a ride?”

  “Of course I need a ride,” I say. “What, am I supposed to walk?”

  “If you like.”

  My jaw tingles. I’ve had just about enough of the male species. “Very funny. I wonder if your supervisor will think so too. I’ll be down in five minutes—you’d better be there.”

  I hang up the phone, slip it into my clutch, and sink onto my bed. Belatedly, my hands begin to shake. It’s been months since Reggie and I were alone together. Isn’t that enough time for me to have moved on? Why do the wounds Reggie left still feel fresh, even if I don’t love him anymore? I worry they always will be, but I don’t want him back. If I miss him, I don’t know I do. Whenever I catch myself thinking about him, I throw myself into work. The night my lawyer advised we start discussing what assets to let go of to move the divorce along, I stayed up until dawn creating a progress report for our newest client. I didn’t sleep until I wrote my lawyer back and told him to press on. Reggie shouldn’t be allowed to get away with making me feel all the things I did over the course of our marriage—worthless, crazy, objectified, unattractive, dense. He won’t get away with it. Not while I’m able to keep fighting.

  With a deep breath, I stand and smooth out my dress. The show must go on—it’s my mantra, always has been. Without the show, what else would I have?

  TWELVE

  Before I exit the car, I check my makeup one last time, close my compact, and straighten my shoulders. My muscles have been tense since I slid into the backseat. Getting nominated for an award doesn’t excite me like it should. These events have more to do with who’s attending than who’s being honored. When I step out, the world is my stage.

  When I get home, I should relax with a bath.

  The thought comes out of nowhere, and for the first time since this morning, I smile. Until Andrew, it’d been months since I’d used the tub. I’d forgotten how comforting a bath could be—until Andrew. Andrew. He was exactly what I’d needed when I’d needed it. I barely knew him, but I knew he was different from Reggie. I still don’t trust my judgment entirely, but it never felt like a game with Andrew.

  I’m still not sure I should’ve kicked him out. Right now, I’d love a few more hours with him. But the moment I stopped seeing him as a one-night stand and saw him for what he really was—a considerate, sexy man any girl would be lucky to have—I knew it had to end. I’ve learned enough in my thirty-two years to know when that shift occurs.

  “What’s happening at the hotel?” the driver asks.

  I glance at him in the rearview mirror. I’m not really in the mood to chat, but he looks at me expectantly. “There’s an awards dinner.”

  “Oh yeah? Are you nominated?”

  “My firm is.”

  “Congrats. What for?”

  “Ironically, a campaign we did for a kids’ clothing store last year.”

  “Why’s that ironic?”

  I return my gaze out the window. “Children and I don’t get along. It’s not my account. I didn’t think it’d be the reason for my first nomination.”

  He nods. “Children are a pain in the ass. A good pain, though, like the way you feel the day after a good workout. Know what I mean? Or runner’s high. I don’t run, but I’ve heard some people get addicted to it. That’s kind of what kids are like.”

  I do know what he means. Bikram yoga can get so intense, I’d cry during each session if I had any fluid left in my body. Yet I attend weekly without fail. “I don’t know,” I say, “but I have a feeling parenthood is a lot more nuanced than that.”

  “Sure, sure. I’m just trying to say having your own kids would be different.”

  I glance at my lap. Every holiday, I send my sister’s kids gifts chosen and wrapped by an assistant, but it’s been a while since I visited them. The last time I did, I could barely stand it. The house was a mess. There were toys, food, baby accoutrement everywhere. Walking through the living room was like traversing a minefield, complete with the sounds of battle—constant crying, obnoxious cartoons, and hair-raising screams, from both children and adults.

  The driver turns the car onto the street of the venue. “There’s a bit of a line,” he says. “Shouldn’t be too long, though.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  We creep forward a few feet. “Unless you prefer to walk,” he adds with a smirk.

  I narrow my eyes. And then, for some reason, I laugh. As far as drivers go, and I’ve been in the company of many, he’s pretty inappropriate. He also doesn’t cower like the others. “I think I will, actually,” I say.

  He stops the car so I can get out. “It’s a nice evening,” he says. “Spring’ll be over before you know it. I’d hate for you to miss it.”

  “Next you’re going to tell me to stop and smell the roses,” I say.

  “You should,” he says. “Plenty of bodegas got those little bouquets out front.”

  “Maybe you have a point.” I’m getting soft. His attitude reminds me a bit of Andrew’s, and my stomach instinctively drops when I remember how Andrew convinced me to submit to him. I open the door and climb out of the car. “Thanks again.”

  My heels aren’t exactly made for walking, but I’m only a block from the venue. The driver was right—it is a nice night, with a mild May breeze. I stroll around the spotlight in the middle of the sidewalk, past the side alley crammed with smokers, and by the press crowded around the step and repeat.

  In the hotel ballroom, I spot a few familiar faces. I air-kiss a marketing manager at Estée Lauder and greet an old assistant of mine who’s now a buyer for Barney’s Ready-to-Wear department.

  It’s crowded, so it takes me a moment to scan the room and locate the table I purchased for tonight. As I take a step toward it, a hand on my elbow stops me. “Excuse me, Miss. Can I offer you a glass of our finest single malt whisky?”

  I turn to upbraid the waiter for touching me, but find myself face to face with a bottle of sixteen-year-old Glenlivet and a stark red tie where a waiter’s uniform should be. I look up into blue eyes that feel more familiar, more comforting, than they should.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask Andrew more brusqu
ely than I mean.

  Sadie appears out of nowhere, shaking her head at me. “Amelia,” she scolds. “Play nice.”

  I look between the two of them. If Sadie knows anything, she doesn’t let on. I’d like to keep it that way, so I shut my mouth and swallow my astonishment. “I’m sorry . . . I just don’t understand why the plumber is here.”

  Andrew raises a dark, heavy eyebrow at me, a punishment of a glance that nearly takes my breath away. I have a feeling he’s biting back a cutting response.

  Sadie scowls. “He’s not a plumber. I told you. He’s my brother.”

  “I apologize.” I press my lips together to hold in a smile; messing with Andrew comes almost too easy. “I just didn’t expect to see him here.”

  Sadie furrows her brows. “Why would you? He’s Mindy’s date.”

  It’s the last thing I expected to hear, and it takes me a moment to register what she said—Andrew is here, but not to see me. To be someone else’s date. I brush an imaginary lock of hair from my forehead. “I thought Mindy was going out with that awful man from the Internet?”

  “He’s done,” Sadie says.

  Andrew, the man who’d made it sound as if he’d chew off his own arm to escape a sleepover with a clingy woman, is here with Mindy, who is definitely on the husband hunt, despite all the warnings I’ve bestowed on her.

  “Oh. Well, nice to see you again,” I say, feigning interest in something across the room. “I’m going to grab a drink and mingle. I’ll see you two at the table.”

  “No need,” Andrew says, calling my attention back. He produces a tumbler from the crook of his arm and holds it out to fill with whisky. “I’ve got you covered.”

  “Where’d you get that?” I ask.

  “Andrew is being a total princess tonight,” Sadie answers. “He insisted we stop and get Glenlivet on the way. Apparently an open bar isn’t good enough for him.”

  “I was worried they wouldn’t have any good whisky,” he says. “And Glenlivet’s my favorite. What about you, Amelia? What’s your preference?”

  “Glenlivet,” I say warily. He already knows that. I take the tumbler when he offers it. “Isn’t this yours?”