Now that I’ve admitted it, I swear a dam has burst somewhere in my mind, letting all of my guilt and grief andhatefor myself surge up and over. I have to get it out before it eats me alive or I do something unwise—like drink another bottle of wine and record my drunken rantings for the world to see. Thomas is about to be in the middle of the tsunami whether he wants to be or not.
“I stayed because it was easier than leaving.” The words come out in a rushed exhale, some version of a sad laugh. “I thought things beinggood enoughmeant they weregood. I mean, better the devil you know than the one you don’t, right? And then when he left on our wedding day, I thought—”
I cut short, running out of breath, and the inhale I take shudders through my body. But Thomas doesn’t try to interrupt or stop me or do anything except reach out to steady my trembling hand, keeping me from spilling hot coffee over my skin.
“I thought he would come back,” I finally admit—to Thomas, to myself, for the first time to anyone, anywhere. “Iwaited for him to come back. Even though he literally said to meI just don’t want to be with you, Stella, I waited. I sat in a back office of the church for hours, just hoping he’d change his mind and realize he’d made a mistake.”
This time, I do laugh, because it’s fucking comical how foolish I was to think that would happen.
“But he didn’t come back. My parents took me to my house—the house Étienne and I had bought together that hestillhadn’t moved his things into—and I kept waiting. I stayed there for a few days, then went to the apartment we’d been living in together, but he wasn’t there either. In fact, all of his stuff was gone.”
I don’t think Thomas realizes that he’s squeezing my hand, but the pressure is soothing, even if the flash of anger in his eyes isn’t. I have to look away before I can speak again.
“The rant that got me into so much trouble?” I remind him. “That’s what happened when I got back to the house and started drinking, as if that would help me forget how pathetic I was for waiting on something that would never happen.” I shake my head, still sick with myself over it. “You know, sometimes I think I’m still waiting for him to come back. To tell me he made a mistake. To take me back.”
Thomas’s grip tightens just a little more.
“And now you know the full story,” I finish with a half-hearted shrug and an even weaker attempt at a smile. “Bet that’s not what you were expecting to hear.”
When I stop speaking, the silence is thick, and I can feel Thomas’s gaze on me, though I still don’t dare to look up until he murmurs, “Oh, Stella.”
I pull my hand out of his grasp, somehow not spilling the coffee, but I can’t take the sympathy in his voice or the way his eyes have gone achingly soft. It’s not pity written across hisface, which I’m thankful for, but whatever this is—this look of understanding and what almost comes off as anger on my behalf—is somehow so much worse.
“I need to go get dressed,” I choke out, setting my mug down on the counter and dipping my head again so he can’t see my embarrassment up close and personal. “Don’t want to be late. See you for dinner later?”
“Stella, hold on,” he calls, reaching for me.
But I’m already leaving the kitchen, determined to forget this conversation ever happened.
“I’m such a fuckup.”
Janelle eyes me over the edge of her glass, the mimosa not even touching her lips yet. “Let a girl have a sip of her drink before we start with the self-hate, damn.”
I sigh and rest my elbows on the table. “Sorry. Go ahead and down half of that, then I’ll get into it.”
She does as she’s instructed, then daintily dabs at her lips with her napkin. “Proceed.”
I waste no time unloading, catching her up on everything that’s happened since we last spoke—like the kiss at the gala and the following friendship conversation, culminating in my minor breakdown this morning. I’m interrupted once by our server coming over to take our orders, and I don’t finish my story until our meals are being placed in front of us.
“I—wow,” Janelle stammers. She slowly picks up her cutlery, looking like she’s struggling to find the right words, either to comfort me or to tell me that I’ve been a complete and utter asshole over the past twenty-four hours. “Can I say something I don’t think you’re going to like?”
Should have known it was going to be the second option.“Go for it,” I grumble, picking up my fork and stabbing at my eggs.
“Number one—”
“OhGod, it’s a whole list?”
“Number one,” she repeats. “I understand why you made the rules you did, but they’re ruining your life.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re preventing yourself from being happy.” She slices into her eggs Benedict with perfect precision. “You could be getting your rocks off with a nice man who seems like he’sverywilling to give you all the orgasms you could want.”
My face goes hot, not because I fear we’ve been overheard by the gray-haired ladies at the table over but because she’s right. Thomas has been up for the task since day one.
“Because it would complicate things when we get divorced,” I stress. “I don’t want to get…”
“Attached?” Janelle finishes for me, like she knows exactly what I’m afraid of. “Is it so bad if you do?”
