For God’s sake. Our marriage is not supposed to have lies. My stomach roils with a surge of nausea.
“I told you everything, Dean,” I whisper, “because I knew you could handle it. I knew you were strong enough to work through anything with me.”
“Fuck, Liv.” He scrubs his hands over his face, tension cording his forearms. “I know.”
“But this whole time… did you think I wouldn’t do the same for you?”
“No, of course not. I just didn’t want you to.”
“I’m your wife! I want to know everything about you. I thought I did.”
“Liv…”
“Did you think I’d never find out the truth about Helen?” I pace a few steps away from him, my heart clenching. “Did you think you could keep it a secret forever? Especially when I brought up having children?”
“I don’t know what I thought.” He sits on the sofa and leans his elbows on his knees. He stares at the floor. “I wanted you, Liv. That was all I wanted. And I thought… I thought I was all you wanted.”
I swipe at my tears again. “You were.”
“You said you never wanted kids, and that was fine with me,” he says. “You’re right. We had it good. So good that I didn’t think we needed anything else.”
We had it good. We both used the past tense without realizing it.
“I’ve given you all I have,” I say, my throat closing over the words. “All I am. You know that. Why didn’t you do the same for me?”
“I did. The disaster with Helen was… it’s not important. Not to us.”
“How can you say that when it affected your response to having a baby with me?”
“What do you want me to do now, Liv?” Frustration steels his voice as he lifts his head to look at me. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It was in the past, and I didn’t want you to have to deal with another shitty thing. That was it. It had nothing to do with us.”
“Everything about you has to do with us.”
“I can’t change it, Liv! What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know.” My voice cracks.
We stare at each other. I see with sudden, sharp clarity exactly what our marriage has been. Dean has been in control of all the barbed-wire things that could hurt me. And I have been willing to let him be my shield, to keep the bad stuff away.
Except now the bad stuff is like quicksand beneath my feet, pulling me under, and my husband can’t rescue me from it.
The buzzer sounds, breaking the tight, strained air.
I go downstairs to collect the take-out order, but neither of us is hungry. I leave the containers on the table and go into the bedroom, closing the door. For a while, there is silence from the living room and then the sounds of a football game on TV.
Dean is gone by the time I haul myself out of bed the next morning after a sleepless night. I know he’s just gone to work, but for the first time ever I wonder what would happen if he didn’t come home.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
October 30
xcellent, Liv.” Tyler takes another bite of my filet and nods with approval. “Very well-seasoned, perfect sear on the meat. The sauce is the right consistency. Maybe just a bit more tarragon, but overall delicious. Great job.”
Pleasure flows like light through me, dispelling the anxiety and dismay that have permeated the last week. I smile and cut off a slice of beef with my fork. He’s right. It’s crusty on the outside, tender and juicy on the inside with a nice tang of chives.
Tyler grins and gives me a pat on the shoulder. “See? You can do more than you think you can. That soufflé was your turning point. I’m really proud of you. And you should be proud of yourself.”
“I am.” It’s true. Two months ago, I never would have believed myself capable of turning out a delicious meal of porcini-encrusted filet mignon accompanied by fresh herb butter.
Next to me, my station neighbor Charlotte gives me the thumbs-up sign. I grin back at her and pack up the rest of the meal before starting to clean my station.
“Hey, Liv, could you stay after class for a few minutes?” Tyler asks. “There’s something I want to ask you.”
I ignore a twinge of unease. “Sure.”
My station is spotless by the time everyone else has left and the kitchen store, Epicurean, has closed. I hitch my satchel over my shoulder and approach Tyler at his station. The top few buttons on his chef’s jacket are unbuttoned, revealing the hollow of his throat and a half-circle of skin down to the top of a T-shirt beneath.
I pull my gaze from his throat to his face, forcing my voice to sound casual and breezy. “So, what’s up, Chef?”
“A TV crew is coming to film a segment at Julienne in December,” he says, gathering up his things and turning off the lights. “They’re doing a documentary about chefs who use local and organic ingredients. So for the segment about me, they want to mention the cooking class and interview a couple of my students. I was wondering if you’d be interested in participating.”