by Nina Lane
I know my wife’s doubts. I know where they come from. I know she has wondered what she would have done if we hadn’t gotten married.
Liv moves to pick up the plates and take them into the kitchen. When she returns, she stops by the coffee table and looks at me.
“You want to tell me about the meeting yet?” she asks.
Everything that’s happened to us snarls in my head. All Liv ever wanted was to live a happy, normal life. All she wanted to do was feel safe. I was so convinced I could give that to her. Instead I keep pulling her back into insecurity and fear. Exactly the way she lived for so long.
And she’s doubted both me and herself. Questioned our whole marriage. She found something in another man that I wasn’t giving her.
That one still crashes into me like a sledgehammer. What did that bastard give her? What did I miss?
“Dean, don’t.”
For a second, I think she read my thoughts.
“Don’t shut me out,” Liv says. “Please. Not again.”
“I’ve been suspended from the university.”
“What?”
“Not officially… at least, not yet.” I rub the back of my neck. “But I’m not allowed to teach or even be on campus because they’re starting an investigation. So Frances said I could either take a leave of absence or she’d have to request that I be suspended. I took the leave.”
“Oh, Dean.” She sinks onto the edge of a chair. “How can they do that to you?”
“They say it’s university policy. I say it’s because they’re up against the Hamiltons.”
“What about your students?”
“Frances is getting a sub for my classes. I’ll still advise my grad students via email.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Time to work on my book, anyway. Get the conference finalized. Watch daytime talk shows.”
“How long will you have to stay away?”
“At least for the semester. Or however long the investigation takes. Supposed to take only a month or two, but with Edward Hamilton involved, it could drag on.” I shake my head. “Stafford is meeting with Maggie in a couple of weeks. She might tell him I made a move on her several times.”
“Oh, no.”
“I should’ve anticipated this, especially after what Maggie told you. Helen said she—”
I stop.
Liv stares at me. “Helen?”
Shit.
“When did you talk to Helen about this?” Liv asks.
“After I got Frances’s email.”
“And you told her? Before you told me?”
Jesus Christ. I am so fucking sick of hurting my wife.
“You were pregnant, Liv. I couldn’t tell you until I knew what was going on.”
“You couldn’t tell me because I was pregnant?” She looks at me in disbelief. “But you could tell your ex-wife? What the hell?”
“Helen’s an academic, Liv, she gets the university environment—”
“And I don’t. I’m the fragile little wife whom you had to protect from bad news.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean, then?” she snaps. “You told me how bad things were with you and Helen, how you never wanted to see each other again after you got divorced. I know you buried the hatchet when we were in California, but even so… why would you go to her first instead of me?”
There’s no answer to that question, except that my fear will never go away.
“I’m sorry. I was trying—”
“To protect me,” she interrupts. “I get it. And how has that worked out for you?”
“I’ll never stop trying, Liv. I can’t.”
She takes a breath, her expression so… so sad that every part of me aches.
“Dean—”
“Liv, please. Please don’t. I’m so sorry. If you cry, I’ll lose my mind. Just… just come here. Please.”
For a heart-stopping minute, she doesn’t move. Then she sits beside me on the sofa in the same place she was before. She puts her hand over mine. I can feel the ridge of scar tissue still crossing her palm.
For a long time, we sit there, looking out the window at the lights of Avalon Street and the black expanse of the lake beyond.
CHAPTER TWENTY
OLIVIA
FEBRUARY 12
ean, it sounds to me like you are harboring a great deal of guilt and anger for things that have happened to Liv.” Dr. Gale studies Dean as she speaks. “Especially for circumstances beyond your control, like the miscarriage.”
Dean doesn’t respond. He’s wound so tight that even his jaw is clenched.
“And you’re angry about things that happened to Liv before you even met,” Dr. Gale continues, her voice gentle. “Like her relationship with her mother and the abuse. The way she was treated.”
Dean turns his head to stare out the window. His arms are folded across his chest, his fingers digging into his biceps.
I take a breath and exhale slowly, restraining myself from jumping in to fill the silence. This is our second meeting with Dr. Gale, the counselor whom my former therapist recommended. I like Dr. Gale—she’s on the granola side with curly hair, a flowing skirt, and an office filled with plants, low lighting, and comfortable furniture. A little rock garden fountain sits in a corner of the room.
The Zen-like atmosphere, however, has done nothing to put my husband at ease.
“Dean?” Dr. Gale prompts. “What do you think of that?”
“I think you’re right,” he says, his voice clipped.
“We need to look at how your anger and guilt are affecting your relationship with Liv now,” Dr. Gale says. She glances at me. “How do you feel about it, Liv?”
Sad. Also guilty.
If I admit that, Dean will be even more upset. But if I don’t admit that, we’ll still be locked in a thorny, hurtful secrecy that we only think is protective.
“Liv?” Dr. Gale is still looking at me.
I tighten my hands together. Dean and I are sitting on either end of the same sofa, and the distance between us suddenly seems as vast as an ocean.
“I don’t want him to be angry,” I finally say.
“That’s what you don’t want,” Dr. Gale says, “not how you do feel.”
Dean makes a noise of impatience. I try to focus on the doctor.
“I feel… like it’s my fault that he’s angry and guilty,” I admit.
“It’s not your fault,” Dean tells me.
I know that’s not true. I pleat the folds of my skirt, disliking the idea that my husband still views me as a blameless good girl. That he won’t hold me accountable.
“Dean, can you tell me what you liked about Liv when you first met her?” Dr. Gale asks.
Dean glances at her, faintly surprised. “I liked everything about her.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“She was determined, beautiful, intelligent, kind of shy, and…” His voice trails off.
“A maze,” I say.
“A maze,” Dr. Gale repeats.
“He knew it would take work to get to know me, and he liked the challenge.”
Dr. Gale looks at Dean. “Is that true?”
“To a degree, yes.”
“And then how did you feel when you did get to know Liv? When you reached the end of the maze, as it were?”
He stares out the window again. “I didn’t want to leave.”
We’re all silent for a moment. My throat aches. Dr. Gale gives me an encouraging smile.
“What about you, Liv?” she asks. “What did you like about Dean when you first met?”
“I trusted him instinctively. I liked his strength and confidence. The way he made me feel. The sense that he would protect me from anything.”
“And how have your feelings for him changed over the course of your marriage?”
“They’ve gotten stronger, except…”
“Except?” Dr. Gale prompts.
“Except sometimes now I think he�
�s too strong, too protective. That’s why he didn’t want me to go with him to California. That’s why he didn’t tell me about the OJA situation until he absolutely had to. He won’t let me in or give me bad news because he doesn’t want me to get upset.”
“What do you think of what Liv just said, Dean?”
“I think she’s right,” he replies shortly.
“What I’m hearing from Liv is that she doesn’t feel as if you always treat her like an equal partner,” Dr. Gale suggests, her voice gentle. “That perhaps your overprotectiveness is not allowing either of you to connect the way you should.”
“It’s not just him.” I still dislike the implication that I’m blameless. “I was happy to let him be that way. No one had ever protected me before, and it felt good that he wanted to. That he could. We… our marriage was so safe, like a fortress where nothing could hurt us. Except…”
“Except?”
“Except we… we ended up hurting each other.” The admission scrapes my soul raw.
Tension stiffens Dean’s entire body. I want to reach out and grab his hand, touch his arm, something. My fingers dig into my palms. A new pain fills me at the reminder of what happened to us last fall and the fact that we still haven’t fully dealt with it.
“Okay.” Sensing the thick tension in the room, Dr. Gale looks at her notepad. “So, for a long time your marriage has been a safe haven for both of you. What else has been good about it?”
I shift, embarrassed, though the answer comes without any thought.
“Sex,” I admit.
“Sex between you has been good?”
“It’s been great.” My face heats. I glance at Dean. He’s still staring out the window, unreadable.
“Dean?” Dr. Gale turns her gaze on him.
“She’s right,” he says.
“So you’ve always been able to connect on a sexual level.”
I nod. “Always.”
“Perhaps that’s part of the problem,” Dr. Gale suggests. “You might be using an intense sexual relationship as a substitute for connecting on emotional and intellectual levels.”
“Bullshit,” Dean mutters.
“Dean…”
“What, Liv?” He turns to look at me, irritation tightening his features. “You think we fuck good because we’re not emotionally connecting?”
My flush deepens. “No, but maybe we sometimes use sex as a way to avoid dealing with stuff.”
“What stuff?” he snaps.
“Like you feeling guilty and angry when bad things happen. Or the fact that we never really talked about what happened last fall.”
“We didn’t have time, Liv! We had to go to California and—”
“But we had plenty of time to fool around, didn’t we? We always made time for that.” Something clicks in my head. A rush of intensity pours through me.
“You can control sex, Dean,” I say. “You’re totally in command when it comes to fucking. You know exactly what to do and when to do it… you know how to… to orchestrate both my pleasure and yours… you make me so crazy with wanting you that I forget about everything else.”
“So why is that suddenly a problem?” he asks.
“Because everything else is important too! And you can’t control it all, no matter how much you want to. You can’t stop some things from happening.”
“I’m the one who got you pregnant when we hadn’t planned it,” he retorts.
“Oh, right, it was your fault, wasn’t it?”
“I didn’t use a condom! You got pregnant, you had all these doubts, you suffered a miscarriage… whose fault was that, if not mine?”
“I’m part of this marriage too, Dean! You’re not fucking a wind-up doll when we’re in bed together… you’re so damn good at sex because you know how to control it, but you’re doing it with me, not to me.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you don’t want to admit that I have an equal responsibility for everything that happens in this marriage, both good and bad.” A shudder ripples through me, and I’m suddenly cold. “If you admit that, then you have to accept that I’m also at fault.”
“None of this is your fault,” Dean mutters.
“It’s my fault that I kissed another man.” I almost wince when the words come out.
A wave of anger radiates off Dean. My heart seizes. Dr. Gale blinks.
“We should talk about that, Liv,” she suggests gently. “When did it happen?”
Before I can respond, Dean shoves off the sofa and goes to the door.
“Dean…”
He stalks out, slamming the door. I throw Dr. Gale a look of apology, then take my coat and satchel and hurry after him.
“Dean!”
He’s halfway to the parking lot when I catch up with him. I grab his arm. He yanks away and keeps walking, his boots crushing the packed snow and ice.
“Dean, please.” I come to a halt, watching his broad back as he gets farther away, his stride long, his whole body rigid with fury.
He stops by the car. I approach him. A cold wind blows his hair across his forehead. He shoves it back and turns to face me. His eyes are black as night.
“What, Liv?” He spreads his hands. He’s trembling. “What now?”
“I don’t know! I’m trying to figure it out. That’s why you need to come back in and talk to me.”
“I don’t want to do this in front of the doctor,” he snaps.
My breath comes out in hard puffs of white. Dean didn’t button his coat, and the lapels flap open in the wind. He must be freezing.
“Then come home and talk to me,” I say. “Please.”
He doesn’t respond, but he goes around to the passenger side and yanks open the door. I get inside. He slams the door and gets behind the wheel. We’re both silent as he drives back to Avalon Street. His frustration and anger are tangible.
I have a sudden memory of our first meeting. Of him crouching beside me on the sidewalk, his fingers brushing the sleeve of my sweatshirt. Of him standing by the street, hands in his pockets, all relaxed, masculine confidence. The breeze ruffling his thick hair, the way he gave me that easy smile, white and striking.
Now I can’t remember the last time he smiled.
He puts his hand on my lower back to guide me over patches of ice as we walk to our apartment. Inside, we shed our coats and I go to turn up the thermostat. I watch my husband as he paces to the window. He digs into his pocket for a loop of string.
Tenderness fills me. Only Professor Dean West has a habit of making complicated patterns when he doesn’t know what else to do. After another few twists, he unknots the pattern and wraps the frayed string around his fingers.
“I never…” He shakes his head. “I never thought you were less.”
“I know you didn’t.”
I brush at a stray tear. I haven’t thought about Tyler Wilkes, my former cooking instructor and the man I made the mistake of kissing, since long before Christmas. I think about him now, though. Not in a romantic way, but because I finally understand why I was drawn to him when for so long Dean was the only man I wanted.
Tyler believed I could do something when I didn’t think I could. Granted, he believed I could cook a soufflé, not climb Mount Everest, but he wanted me to try, fail, try again, fail again, and finally succeed. He didn’t try to shield me from disappointment because he wanted me to believe I could do it too. And he made me prove it when I was doubting everything about my life.
Dean has always loved me, always supported me, always tried to protect me. But he has never challenged me to rely on myself.
“You just always wanted to give me the safety I never had,” I tell him. “But life isn’t safe, no matter how hard you try to make it that way.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Dean, I… I spent a lot of years doing what my mother told me to do.” I have to push the words past my tight throat. “Being quiet, trying to cooperate. When I left her, I thought I’d f
inally be able to stand on my own. But living with Stella and Henry was so repressive. And even though I did well in high school, that whole mess at Fieldbrook…”
I feel Dean’s flash of rage. I don’t look at him. A jagged flashback threatens. I tear it apart, fling it aside. Breathe.
“I spent so much energy trying to deal with what happened,” I continue, rubbing my damp palms over my skirt. “Trying to forget. To stop blaming myself. And then when I first met you, I was still trying to figure out who I wanted to be. Who I could be.”
I lift my head to look at him. He’s watching me, his expression unreadable, his posture tense.
“You showed me so much of that,” I say. “So much more than I even knew existed. You showed me how to be free, and what it feels like to be safe and wanted and loved. You showed me how to love. How to stop being afraid. How to fight for what I want. Especially when what I wanted most was you.”
His eyes glitter. I press a hand to my aching chest.
“Then when… when things got so messy between us, I turned to another man.” I swipe at another tear, swallow the bile of guilt. “It was like… like I didn’t know what to do without you. If someone else had been the problem, you would have dealt with it. You would have been strong and protective and just… there.”
I take a breath. “But you weren’t there, Dean, because we were the problem. And I didn’t know how to handle it alone, so I… well. Then the pregnancy... I was conflicted about it, but I wanted to figure out how to be a good mother. I thought I could be, that it would be another way to prove myself, but then the… the miscarriage…”
“And I wasn’t there.” His voice is rough. “Again.”
“You couldn’t have been there! There was nothing you could have done. None of it was your fault.”
“Then why is it screwing us up again? It’s like I told you last December. I don’t know what it is I’m not giving you.”
“You have to let me fail, Dean, and you have to believe I can get back up on my own.”
“I know you can.”
My heart constricts. “But you have to let me prove it. You have to accept that I’m going to get hurt, but also that I can be self-reliant. You can’t always save me.”
