“I…” My throat is aching. “I don’t know why you thought I would.”
“I’m sorry.” He lets go of me and drags a hand through his hair, letting out a heavy sigh. “Please believe that, if nothing else. I want… I thought if I told you, if you understood about the whole pregnancy thing… I don’t know. I want us to be okay again.”
My heart breaks a little more. Once upon a time I would never have imagined we could be anything but okay.
We don’t speak the entire way back. When we reach the place where we started, Dean pulls me to him and tucks me underneath his arm.
I move closer to him, but there’s a gap between us, my shoulder pressing into the wrong place, my body no longer fitting quite so perfectly into the space against his side.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
October 16
e was married before. My husband was married before.
He was my first in so many ways—my first lover, my first love, my first confidante, my first and only hero—but he knew a lot of women before me and had had a lot of experience. And while that knowledge has needled me every now and then, I’ve always been secure in the fact that I am his first and only wife.
But, as it turns out, I’m not.
I’m not who I thought I was. I don’t even know how to process that. I can’t make any sense of it.
And I have no idea what to do with this new information about the Former Wife, so I’m trying very hard not to think about it. Not to think about her or what the hell happens next. Both Dean and I know how buried secrets can poison you, which is just one of the things that makes it so hard to accept that he hadn’t told me.
Suppressing a surge of pain, I put a mixing bowl on the counter of my cooking station and yank open the cutlery drawer.
“You can do it, Liv,” Tyler insists. He’s standing beside me, looking neat and professional in his chef’s jacket.
I glower at him. I feel like I’m in detention. Everyone else in class is steaming fish en papillote, but Tyler has instructed me—and me alone—to make a soufflé.
Yeah.
I’m still struggling with the knotted idea of Dean’s first marriage, still trying not to think about it while unable to make it go away, and now Tyler is singling me out to do something I really don’t want to do.
“But why?” I sound a little whiney. I’ve made three soufflés in the past six weeks and they’ve all been disastrous.
Tyler is firm—and oblivious to my inner turmoil. “I told you why. You need to know what it feels like to make a proper soufflé.”
“Tyler, I’m sure I can live quite happily without experiencing that thrilling emotion.”
“Maybe so. But I still want you to try.”
I mutter and grumble to make a point. I really want to wrap fish up in cute little paper bags, but because I am still a dutiful student who always does what the teacher asks, I get out a carton of eggs.
After another couple of seconds, I turn off my internal complainer and focus on the task. I complete the mise en place, measuring out the ingredients, grating the parmesan cheese, separating the eggs.
On a whim, I also chop scallions, cheddar cheese, and a few strips of cooked bacon. I mix butter and flour for the sauce, then whisk in hot milk and seasonings.
Once I get going, I lose track of time. Around me, the sounds of cooking rise in a pleasing symphony—chopping, sizzling, stirring. I beat the egg whites, slowly folding them into the sauce and rotating with the grated cheese. I pour the mixture into the ramekin.
My oven beeps to indicate the preheating is complete. I carefully slide the dish inside, then close the door and turn on the interior light so I can watch it cook. I alternate between cleaning my station and peering through the glass.
After my station is clean, I twist a dishtowel anxiously and crouch in front of the oven. The darned thing actually looks good. It’s rising.
Don’t fall. Don’t fall.
As I wait for the endless last five minutes of baking time, I realize Tyler hasn’t stopped by my station at all to check on my progress. I stand to look for him. He’s making his rounds to all the other stations, pointing out this and that.
He catches my eye. I feel like holding up my hands in a “Dude, what’s the deal?” gesture—after all, he made me attempt the soufflé again—but then he winks.
The timer dings. I almost hold my breath as I grab two oven mitts and open the door.
Oh my God.
It looks incredible. Puffy and golden-brown, my soufflé rises dramatically over the rim of the dish a good three inches, like a movie star preening for the camera. It’s at least doubled in volume. The heavenly aromas of cheese, bacon, and scallions drift to me in a wave of heat.
“Tyler.” My voice comes out a squeak. My heart pounds as I carefully transfer the dish to the counter. “Tyler!”
Now it’s a shriek because, Good Lord, the man has got to see this before it starts to collapse.
My fellow students all turn, and Tyler hurries to my station. The rest of the class follows.