It’s odd. I was with Ethan for four years and probably spent one or two nights a week with him. I loved my alone time when Ethan and I were dating. Even in the beginning. Being with him was nice, but being alone was just as nice.
It’s not like that with Graham. After two hours, I’m bored out of my mind. I finally turn off the television, turn off my phone, turn off the lamp. When all is dark, I try to clear my thoughts so I’ll fall asleep and be able to dream about him.
* * *
My alarm starts to buzz, but it’s too bright, so I grab a pillow and throw it over my face. Graham is normally here and he always cuts off the alarm for me and gives me a couple of minutes to wake up. Which means my alarm will go off forever if I don’t adult.
I move the pillow and just as I’m about to reach for the alarm, it cuts off. I open my eyes and Graham is rolling back over to face me. He’s not wearing a shirt and it looks like he just woke up.
He smiles and pecks me on the lips. “I couldn’t sleep,” he says. “Finally gave up and came over here after midnight.”
I smile, even though it’s way too early for me to feel like smiling. “You missed me.”
Graham pulls me against him. “It’s weird,” he says. “I used to be fine when I was alone. But now that I have you, I’m lonely when I’m alone.”
Sometimes he says the sweetest things. Words I want to write down and keep forever so that I’ll never forget them. But I never write them down because every time he says something sweet, I take off his clothes and need him inside me more than I need to write down his words.
That’s exactly what happens. We make love and I forget to write down his words. We’ve been trying to catch our breath for the last minute when he turns to me and says, “What did I miss while you were sleeping?”
I shake my head. “It’s too weird.”
He lifts up onto his elbow and looks at me like I’m not getting out of this. I sigh and roll onto my back. “Okay, fine. We were at your apartment in the dream. Only your apartment was a really tiny shit-hole in Manhattan. I woke up before you because I wanted to do something nice and make you breakfast. But I didn’t know how to cook and all you had were boxes of cereal, so I decided to make you a bowl of Lucky Charms. But every time I would pour the cereal into the bowl, the only thing that would come out of the box were tiny little comedians with microphones.”
“Wait,” Graham says, interrupting me. “Did you say comedians? Like as in people who tell jokes?”
“I told you it was weird. And yes. They were telling knock-knock jokes and yo-momma jokes. I was getting so angry because all I wanted to do was make you a bowl of Lucky Charms, but there were hundreds of tiny, annoying comedians climbing all over your kitchen, telling lame jokes. When you woke up and walked into the kitchen, you found me crying. I was a sobbing mess, running around your kitchen, trying to squash all the little comedians with a mason jar. But instead of being freaked out, you just walked up behind me and wrapped your arms around me. You said, ‘Quinn, it’s okay. We can have toast for breakfast.’ ”
Graham immediately drops his face into the pillow, stifling his laughter. I shove him in the arm. “Try and decipher that one, smartass.”
Graham sighs and pulls me to him. “It means that I should probably cook breakfast from now on.”
I like that plan.
“What do you want? French toast? Pancakes?”
I lift up and kiss him. “Just you.”
“Again?”
I nod. “I want seconds.”
I get exactly what I want for breakfast. Then we shower together, drink coffee together, and leave for work.
We couldn’t even spend an entire night apart, but I don’t think this means we live together. That’s a huge step neither of us are willing to admit we took. I think if anything, this just means we no longer live alone. If there’s a difference.
His mother probably thinks we already live together since she thinks we’ve been dating a lot longer than we have. I’ve been to Graham’s parents’ house at least once a week since the first night he took me there. Luckily, he stopped with the fictional stories. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to keep up with everything he told her the first night.
His mother absolutely loves me now and his father already refers to me as his daughter-in-law. I don’t mind it. I know we’ve only been together three months, but Graham will be my husband one day. It’s not even a question. It’s what happens when you meet your future husband. You eventually marry him.
And eventually . . . you introduce him to your mother.
Which is what is happening tonight. Not because I want him to meet her, but because it’s only fair since I’ve met his. I show you mine, you show me yours.
* * *
“Why are you so nervous?” Graham reaches across the seat and puts pressure on my knee. The knee I’ve been bouncing up and down since we got in the car. “I’m the one meeting your mother. I should be the nervous one.”
I squeeze his hand. “You’ll understand after you meet her.”
Graham laughs and brings my hand to his mouth, kissing it. “Do you think she’ll hate me?”
We’re on my mother’s street now. So close. “You aren’t Ethan. She already hates you.”
“Then why are you nervous? If she already hates me, I can’t disappoint her.”
“I don’t care if she hates you. I’m scared you’ll hate her.”
Graham shakes his head like I’m being ridiculous. “I could never hate the person who gave you life.”
He says that now . . .
I watch Graham’s expression as he pulls into the driveway. His eyes take in the massive home I grew up in. I can feel his thoughts from where I’m sitting. I can also hear them because he speaks them out loud.
“Holy shit. You grew up here?”
“Stop judging me.”
Graham puts the car in park. “It’s just a home, Quinn. It doesn’t define you.” He turns in his seat to face me, placing his hand on the seat rest behind my head as he leans in closer. “You know what else doesn’t define you? Your mother.” He leans forward and kisses me, then reaches around me and pushes open my door. “Let’s get this over with.”
No one greets us at the door, but once we’re inside, we find my mother in the kitchen. When she hears us, she turns around and assesses Graham from head to toe. It’s awkward because Graham goes in for a hug at the same time she goes in for a handshake. He falters a little, but that’s the only time he falters. He spends the entire dinner as the adorably charming person he is.
The whole time, I watch him, completely impressed. He’s done everything right. He greeted my mother as if he were actually excited to meet her. He’s answered all her questions politely. He’s talked just enough about his own family while making it seem he was more interested in ours. He complimented her décor, he laughed at her lame jokes, he ignored her underhanded insults. But even as I watch him excel, I’ve seen nothing but judgment in her eyes. I don’t even have to hear what she’s thinking because she’s always worn her thoughts in her expressions. Even through years of Botox.
She hates that he drove up in his Honda Accord and not something flashier.
She hates that he dared to show up for his first introduction in a T-shirt and a pair of jeans.
She hates that he’s an accountant, rather than the millionaires he does the accounting for.
She hates that he isn’t Ethan.
“Quinn,” she says as she stands. “Why don’t you give your friend a tour of the house.”
My friend.
She won’t even dignify us with a label.
I’m relieved to have an excuse to leave the sitting room, even if it’s just for a few minutes. I grab Graham’s hand and pull him out of the sitting room as my mother returns the tea tray to the kitchen.
We start in the great room, which is just a fancier name for a living room no one is allowed to sit in. I point to the wall of books and whisper, “I’ve never e
ven seen her read a book. She just pretends to be worldly.”
Graham smiles and pretends to care while we walk slowly through the great room. He pauses in front of a wall of photos. Most of them are of my mother and us girls. Once our father died and she remarried, she put away most of the photos of him. But she’s always kept one. It’s a picture of our father with Ava on one knee and me on the other. As if Graham knows the exact photo I’m studying, he pulls it off the wall.
“You and Ava look more alike now than you did here.”
I nod. “Yeah, we get asked if we’re twins every time we’re together. We don’t really see it, though.”
“How old were you when your father died?”
“Fourteen.”
“That’s so young,” he says. “Were you very close?”
I shrug. “We weren’t not close. But he worked a lot. We only saw him a couple of times a week growing up, but he made the most of the times we did see him.” I force a smile. “I like to imagine that we’d be a lot closer now if he were alive. He was an older father, so I think it was just hard for him to connect with little girls, you know? But I think we would have connected as adults.”
Graham places the picture back on the wall. He pauses at every single picture and touches my photo, as if he can learn more about me through the pictures. When we finally make it through the sitting room, I lead him toward the back door to show him the greenhouse. But before we pass the stairs, he rests his hand against the small of my back and whispers against my ear. “I want to see your old bedroom first.”
His seductive voice makes his intentions clear. I get excited at the thought of recreating what happened in his childhood bedroom. I grab his hand and rush him up the stairs. It’s probably been a year or more since I actually came up to my old bedroom. I’m excited for him to see it because after being in his, I feel like I learned a lot more about him as a person.
When we reach my bedroom, I push open the door and let him walk in first. As soon as I flip on the light, I’m filled with disappointment. This experience won’t be the same as the one we had in Graham’s old bedroom.
My mother has boxed up everything. There are empty designer shoe boxes stacked up against two of the walls, floor to ceiling. Empty designer purse boxes cover a third wall. All of my things that once covered the walls of my bedroom are now boxed up in old moving boxes with my name sprawled across them. I walk over to the bed and run my hands over one of the boxes.
“I guess she needed the spare bedroom,” I say quietly.
Graham stands next to me and rubs a reassuring hand against my back. “It’s a tiny house,” he says. “I can see why she’d need the extra room.”
I laugh at his sarcasm. He pulls me in for a hug and I close my eyes as I curl into his chest. I hate that I was so excited for him to see my old bedroom. I hate that it makes me this sad to know my mother will never love me like Graham’s mother loves him. There are two guest bedrooms in this house, yet my mother chooses to use my old bedroom as the storage room. It embarrasses me that he’s witnessing this.
I pull back and suck up my emotions. I shrug, hoping he can’t tell how much it bothers me. But he can. He brushes my hair back and says, “You okay?”
“Yeah. I just . . . I don’t know. Meeting your family was an unexpected quality about you. I was kind of hoping you could have the same experience.” I laugh a little, embarrassed I even said that. “Wishful thinking.”
I walk over to my bedroom window and stare outside. I don’t want him to see the disappointment on my face. Graham walks up behind me and slips his arms around my waist.
“Most people are products of their environment, Quinn. I come from a good home. I grew up with two great, stable parents. It’s expected that I would grow up and be relatively normal.” He spins me around and puts his hands on my shoulders. He dips his head and looks at me with so much sincerity in his eyes. “Being here . . . meeting your mother and seeing where you came from and who you somehow turned out to be . . . it’s inspiring, Quinn. I don’t know how you did it, you selfless, amazing, incredible woman.”
A lot of people can’t pinpoint the exact moment they fall in love with another person.
I can.
It just happened.
And maybe it’s coincidence or maybe it’s something more, but Graham chooses this exact moment to press his forehead to mine and say, “I love you, Quinn.”
I wrap my arms around him, grateful for every single part of him. “I love you, too.”
Chapter Twenty
* * *
Now
I turn off my car and scoot my seat back, propping my leg against the steering wheel. The only light on inside the house is the kitchen light. It’s almost midnight. Graham is probably sleeping because he has to work tomorrow.
This morning when I woke up, I expected Graham to still be outside our bedroom door, knocking, begging for forgiveness. It made me angry that he left for work. Our marriage is crumbling, he admitted to seeing another woman, I holed myself up in our bedroom all night . . . but he woke up, got dressed, and traipsed off to work.
He must work with Andrea. He probably wanted to warn her that I knew in case I flew off the handle and showed up at his office to kick her ass.
I wouldn’t do that. I’m not mad at Andrea. She’s not the one who made a commitment to me. She has no loyalty to me or I to her. I’m only mad at one person in this scenario and that is my husband.
The living room curtain moves. I debate ducking, but I know from experience what a clear view it is from the living room to our driveway. Graham sees me, so there’s no point in hiding. The front door opens and Graham steps outside. He begins to head toward my car.
He’s wearing the pajama pants I bought him for Christmas last year. His feet are covered in two mismatched socks. One black, one white. I always thought that was a conflicting personality trait of his. He’s very organized and predictable in a lot of ways, but for some reason, he never cares if his socks match. To Graham, socks are a practical necessity, not a fashion statement.
I stare out my window as he opens the passenger door and takes a seat inside the car. When he closes the door, it feels as though he cuts off my air supply. My chest is tight and my lungs feel like someone took a knife and ripped a hole in them. I roll down my window so I can breathe.
He smells good. I hate that no matter how much he hurt my heart, the rest of me never got the memo that it’s supposed to be repulsed by him. If a scientist could figure out how to align the heart with the brain, there would be very little agony left in the world.
I wait for his apologies to start. The excuses. Possibly even the blame. He inhales a breath and says, “Why did we never get a dog?”
He’s sitting in the passenger seat, his body half facing me as his head rests against the headrest. He’s staring at me very seriously despite the unbelievable question that just fell from his lips. His hair is damp, like he just got out of the shower. His eyes are bloodshot. I don’t know if it’s from lack of sleep or if he’s been crying, but all he wants to know is why we never got a dog?
“Are you kidding me, Graham?”
“I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “It was just a thought I had. I didn’t know if there was a reason.”
His first I’m sorry since he admitted to having an affair and it’s an apology unrelated to his infidelity. It’s so unlike him. Having an affair is so unlike him. It’s like I don’t even know this man sitting next to me. “Who are you right now? What did you do with my husband?”
He faces forward and leans back against his seat, covering his eyes with his arm. “He’s probably somewhere with my wife. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her.”
So this is how it’s going to be? I thought he’d come out here and make this entire ordeal a little easier to bear, but instead, he’s giving me every reason in the world to justify my rage. I look away from him and focus my attention out my window. “I hate you right now. So much.” A tear slides d
own my cheek.
“You don’t hate me,” he says quietly. “In order to hate me you’d have to love me. But you’ve been indifferent toward me for a long time now.”
I wipe away a tear. “Whatever helps you excuse the fact that you slept with another woman, Graham. I’d hate for you to feel guilty.”
“I never slept with her, Quinn. We just . . . it never got that far. I swear.”
I pause with his confession.
He didn’t sleep with her? Does that make a difference?
Does it hurt less? No. Does it make me less angry at him? No. Not even a little bit. The fact is, Graham was intimate with another woman. It wouldn’t matter if that consisted of a conversation, a kiss, or a three-day fuck-a-thon. Betrayal hurts the same on any level when it’s your husband doing the betraying.
“I never slept with her,” he repeats quietly. “But that shouldn’t make you feel any better. I thought about it.”
I clasp my hand over my mouth and try to stifle a sob. It doesn’t work because everything he’s saying, everything he’s doing . . . it’s not what I expected from him. I needed comfort and reassurance and he’s giving me nothing but the opposite. “Get out of my car.” I unlock the doors, even though they’re already unlocked. I want him far away from me. I grip the steering wheel and pull my seat up straighter, waiting for him to just go. I start the engine. He doesn’t move. I look at him again. “Get out, Graham. Please. Get out of my car.” I press my forehead to the steering wheel. “I can’t even look at you right now.” I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the door to open, but instead, the engine cuts off. I hear him pull my keys out of the ignition.
“I’m not going anywhere until you know every detail,” he says.
I shake my head, swiping at more tears. I reach for my door but he grabs my hand. “Look at me.” He pulls me toward him, refusing to let me out of the car. “Quinn, look at me!”
It’s the first time he’s ever yelled at me.
It’s actually the first time I’ve ever heard him yell.
All Your Perfects Page 14
