“Does he know you’re married?”
“Yes.” The hostility of his questions, as if he’s trying to bully something more out of me, incites my own anger. “I didn’t have to tell you, Dean. You’d never have known if I hadn’t.”
“So why did you? To piss me off?”
“Because I wanted to be honest with you,” I retort. “Which is more than I can say for you.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You kept a previous marriage a secret from me for five years,” I say, and now the tears start to blur my vision like a flash flood. “Not once, apparently, did you think you should be honest with me about everything. Not once did you trust me enough to tell me the truth.”
“I told you it wasn’t because I didn’t trust you!” Dean pivots and stalks toward me. “And don’t turn this back on me.”
“You won’t even talk to me about Helen!”
“What the fuck does that have to do with you kissing another man?”
“I might not have if you hadn’t lied to me,” I snap. “Yeah, I kissed Tyler. I kissed another man because my own husband has been acting like a fucking ass about the idea of having a baby with me and because he’s a coward who suddenly divulges the fact that I’m his second goddamn wife. You’re lucky I haven’t walked out on you.”
“Am I?” His expression darkens like a thundercloud. “And where the fuck would you go, Liv? Do you want to know what would happen to you if you left?”
He crosses the room in three strides and stops in front of me, his anger so palpable, so harsh, that I have to force myself not to move away even though I’m shaking hard and tears are rolling down my cheeks.
“I’ll tell you what would happen.” He lowers his head to look at me, his eyes pitch-black. “You’d end up like your mother, Liv. You’d find a beat-up sedan and leave town, you’d pick up odd jobs wherever you could, you might even end up—”
A sharp, loud crack splits the air as my open palm hits his cheek. He doesn’t flinch, but it’s a hard enough slap to stop his tirade.
We stare at each other. A red imprint spreads across his jaw. I swipe at my face with my sleeve and gulp in air.
The room spins around me, my whole world tilting off axis, everything I’ve known and believed in for five years suddenly in brutal doubt.
Dean steps back, his chest heaving, his expression a mask of fury. He pushes past me. A few seconds later, the front door slams shut.
I slide to the floor and sob until I can hardly breathe.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
November 2
e can barely look at each other. Neither of us has apologized for what we did, what we said. Neither of us has tried to make amends. It’s a shattering hurt—his comparing me to my mother, my betrayal with another man.
After a day of tension thick enough to crack, I pack a bag and put it in the trunk of my car. I drive to the university and go into the history department. Dean is not in his office, and the administrative assistant tells me he’s in the middle of an introductory course lecture.
The doors of the lecture hall are closed, but Dean’s deep voice echoes through. I slip inside. It’s dim, the only light coming from the podium at the front and the huge images of illuminated manuscripts glowing on a screen.
It’s one of those big rooms with auditorium seating, and it’s nearly full of students. I slide into an empty seat in the back row. I haven’t sat in a lecture hall for ages.
Dean is at the front of the room, a pointer in hand, exuding professorial authority in his tailored suit and tie. He gestures at the intricate scrollwork on the edge of one of the manuscript pages, his voice warm with enthusiasm as he talks about marginalia, the burnishing of gold foil, the richness of detail.
My heart tightens. I’ve attended his lectures in the past, but I don’t often see him in his role as a prominent professor.
In fact, rather than express interest in his classes on medieval manuscripts, I’m more likely to yawn when he starts talking about the Book of Hours.
Not exactly supportive, that.
I glance at the students. The majority of them are listening intently, their attention shifting between Dean, the slides, and their notes. He pauses a few times to ask them questions, to engage their opinions and ideas. A discussion ensues about the way wealthy people commissioned manuscripts and instructed the artists to include a donor portrait somewhere on the page.
Pride nudges at me. My husband’s easy authority, his engaging approach, and his depth of knowledge are captivating.
Okay, so medieval history is still a little dorky. But when brought to life by Professor Dean West, it breathes and glows with color.