I approach Dean and step between his chair and the desk. He pushes the chair back a little to make room so I can curl into his lap. He’s only wearing a pair of pajama bottoms, and his chest is warm and muscular.
He folds his arms around me and presses a kiss to my temple. At times like this I never want to leave the comforting, protective circle he’s always wrapped me in. I tuck my head beneath his chin, and we sit for several long minutes. He smells like soap and toothpaste. I listen to his heartbeat, feel the movement of his breath.
He pats my hip. “I should finish up here, beauty.”
“Okay.” I kiss his neck and ease away.
I’m still awake when he comes into the bedroom almost an hour later. He climbs into bed beside me, but makes no move for anything sexual.
I turn to look at him, sliding my hands beneath my head. “What did she study?”
“Who?”
“Helen.”
“I told you. Art history.”
“But what field?”
“Nineteenth-century European. Classicism, realism, impressionism. She did her dissertation on the Pre-Raphaelites.”
Something clicks in my brain from a long-ago art history class. “Weren’t the Pre-Raphaelites influenced by medieval art?”
“Late fourteenth century, before Raphael.” He glances at me. “Why?”
“It’s just kind of… uncanny, you and she. Your fields of study. Should have been a perfect match.”
“All we had were similarities in our research. Everything else was very imperfect. Hell, it was downright defective.”
“Was she good at her work?”
“She got hired at Stanford, so yeah. She was good.” A slightly irritated tone colors his voice. “Why are you asking?”
“I’m curious. Even though it ended badly, she was a big part of your life.”
“Not anymore.”
“When was the last time you talked to her?”
“Years.”
“Does she still teach at Stanford?”
“Yes.” He sighs and switches off the bedside light. “I really don’t want to talk about her.”
Apprehension spreads through me. A million questions crowd my head, have been piling up ever since he told me about his first wife.
His first wife. The word still stings like a thistle. That makes me his second wife.
What was she like? Did he make her laugh? What kind of movies did they watch? How was the sex? What did they do? Where did they travel? Did he know how she liked her coffee? Could she cook?
I want answers to everything, not because I care about Helen but because it has so much to do with Dean. Because it’s all such a part of him, his history, his life.
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Dean, I—”
He turns away toward the opposite wall. “Liv, I thought we were done with this.”
A bubble of anger bursts inside my head.
“You’re never done with a rough past, Dean,” I say, pushing to sit up. “You think you can just tell me about it and it’ll go away? That you make this big revelation and suddenly everything is back to normal with us?”
His back muscles tense. He doesn’t respond.
“We need to go to counseling again, Dean,” I say.
“I’m not discussing my first marriage with a damned counselor.”
My first marriage.
Even he still thinks of it as his first. When we got married, when we said, “I do…,” he’d done it all before. And I had no idea.
A wave of exhaustion slams against me. I roll over and stare at the ceiling. I don’t even have the wherewithal to battle all the old emotions that I hate—fear, inadequacy, anxiety. Loneliness.
Everything that I’d felt before I met Dean. Everything I thought we’d replaced with love and trust. I can feel it all breaking through again now, and I don’t know what to do.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
October 19
make a trip out of town this afternoon. We have a new exhibition opening at the museum, and we’ve ordered the signage and wall-text from a printer in downtown Forest Grove.
I volunteered to pick up the completed order. I tried to tell myself I was being helpful, that the trip had nothing to do with the fact that Tyler Wilkes’s restaurant is four blocks from the print shop.
After picking up the order, I store the materials in the trunk of my car. Then I walk that four blocks to Julienne. It’s a chilly, sunny afternoon, dried leaves brushing the sidewalks, people heading in and out of the cafés and shops.
I’m nervous, unable to shake the feeling that I’m doing something wrong. I stop outside Julienne and pull my cell phone from my satchel.
“Dean?”
“Hey. Where are you?”
“Forest Grove. I had to pick up some signs for a new exhibit.”
“Oh.” There’s some rustling of papers on the other end. “Careful you don’t hit rush hour.”
“I will… um, that’s why I’m calling. I’ll probably be late.”
“Yeah, me too. Ton of work to do, then a football game.”
“Okay. I’ll see you this evening, then.”
“Drive safe.”
I snap the phone shut and shove it back into my satchel. I stare at the calligraphic writing on the window of the restaurant. Then I turn and start walking away.
“Liv?”
Shit.
I turn. Tyler is standing at the open door, looking at me quizzically. He’s wearing his chef’s jacket. He gives me a tentative smile.