Our dinner conversation is almost a repeat of our lunch conversation, except that Dean compliments my cooking. Then he goes into his office while I clean the dishes and muster up the courage to do what I know I have to. The longer I wait, the harder it will be.
Maybe I shouldn’t tell him at all. A vindictive part of me wants to keep it a secret, the way he kept his first marriage from me. But I can’t do that.
For years, Dean has been my best friend, my confidante, the love of my life. We’ve fought for each other. My demons have cowered in the face of his strength. My secrets have always been safe with him.
Except this one is different.
I stand in the kitchen for a while, my heart pounding with nervousness. I try not to think about Tyler Wilkes, but of course that’s impossible because he’s the reason I have to make this confession in the first place.
And yet this is not about him at all. This is about me and my husband.
I shove thoughts of Tyler away and approach Dean’s office. My hand shakes as I knock on the closed door.
“Come in.”
I push the door open. Raw fear tightens my stomach. He’s sitting at his desk, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, papers and a thick book spread out in front of him. My eyes move almost involuntarily to the spot beside his computer where he has always kept a framed photo of me.
The photo is still there. Faint relief curls around my heart.
He looks up, his expression one of distracted concentration. It’s a look I’m not all that familiar with since I don’t often interrupt him when he’s working.
I swallow hard and run my hands over my arms.
“Dean.” My voice comes out tight, strained.
He frowns and swivels in his chair so that he’s facing me. My heart feels like it’s about to claw out of my chest.
“I… I need to tell you something,” I say.
He doesn’t speak, but his frown deepens. I want to sit because my legs are starting to shake, but there’s only one chair in the room and he’s in it. And I do not want to prolong this by suggesting we move to the living room.
So I grasp the doorjamb with one hand to steady myself. “I’ve always told you the truth, right?”
He nods. I take a breath and keep going.
“And… I guess it’s obvious that you and I have had some trouble lately.”
Nothing. His expression doesn’t change.
“I was… remember when you said you wondered if I was thinking about a baby because I had nothing to do?” I ask. “I was mad at first, but it was a fair question. I think that’s why I enrolled in the cooking class. I wanted to do something fun, something different.” I swallow again to ease my parched throat. “And it’s been… well, I’m enjoying it. Learning a lot. But…”
I should have rehearsed this. I have no idea how to say it.
“But?” he asks.
“The instructor… I told you about him. Tyler Wilkes.” I stare over his head at the bookshelf on the opposite wall. I’d suspected I might be crying by this point, but my eyes are dry. “The other night, he was walking me to my car and we were talking, and then kind of suddenly he… he kissed me. Or I kissed him. Well. We sort of… kissed each other.”
My stomach tightens to the point of pain. I grip the doorjamb harder and force myself to look at Dean. He hasn’t moved, but he’s gone pale beneath his tan and a vein is throbbing in his temple.
Bad sign. But it’s done.
“You kissed him,” he finally says.
“Yes.”
“Your cooking teacher.”
“Yes.”
He stares at me in disbelief. The heavy sound of my pulse pounds in my ears.
“Was it good?” His question slices the air, sharp as a blade.
“What?”
“Was it good?” he repeats. “Did you like it?”
“Dean—”
“No, really, Liv. What kind of kisser is your cooking teacher?” His voice drips with derision, and I’m struck with an irrational urge to defend Tyler.
Instead, I look my husband in the eye. “Are you sure you want me to answer that?”
He swears and stands so quickly that the chair skids backward and hits the bookshelf. I take a step away. Anger flares in Dean’s eyes, sparking the air, tightening his muscles.
“How did it happen?” he demands. “Has he made a move on you before?”
“No.” Not really. “No. It was… Christ, Dean, things have been so lousy with us and he was… I don’t know. He was a friend, I guess. And after you and I had that big fight, he walked me to my car after class and… I don’t know. It just happened.”
“Did he force you?” Fury edges the question.
“No.” My face burns with embarrassment and old shame. I pull in a breath and repeat the stark admission. “No. It was mutual.”
He starts to pace, the lines of his body stiff with tension, his hands flexing. It’s a tight, contained anger that I’ve never seen before, and it makes my nervousness spike again. I have no idea where to go from here.
Dean stops. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“I know why he kissed you. Why did you kiss him?”
“Because I… I guess I just wanted to.”
“And did you want him to fuck you?”
My embarrassment flares hotter as I remember the dream I had about Tyler. “It wasn’t… no. Dean, it was a kiss. Nothing more.”
“Did he touch you?”
“No.”