Page 21 of Rebound
And just like that, we are back on familiar territory—gossip, scandal, and examining other people’s problems. It’s ironic really, because neither Martha nor I have perfect lives. I am on the verge of a divorce, and she damn well should be, bearing in mind her husband’s behavior. Yet we don’t touch on those subjects at all. In its own way, it’s actually quite relaxing, like we have come to a mutual agreement to ignore the personal in favor of the public.
I’m not sure this quite fits in with my list goal of making real friends, but it will do for now. Once I can talk about it freely, I’ll confide in Martha and see what happens. Assuming she still wants anything to do with me, that is. There’s every chance that without the clout of the James family name, I will become a social pariah.
Glancing around the room, I realize that I don’t give a damn. Despite being one of the most densely populated cities on earth, New York often feels very small. Would I be bothered if I never saw any of these familiar faces again? If the endless round of invitations and parties dried up? No. In fact, it would be a relief. I might just go and live in a log cabin by a lake and become a crazy cat lady. Maybe I’ll learn how to fish and make campfires, live off the grid and brush my teeth with baking soda. Then again, maybe not. There’s probably some middle ground I have yet to find.
Martha reaches the end of her story about a competitive baking competition at her twins’ school. “I mean, we all buy the damn cakes and pretend we baked them—I know I do. But poor Lindsay Wilmington made the mistake of bringing her choux buns still in the patisserie box. I felt sorry for her, I really did.”
“Sorry enough to confess that you fake it too?”
“Fuck no! Why would I do that?” she says, winking at me. I shake my head, and she orders more wine. I suspect she already had several glasses by the time I arrived.
“Don’t you ever get fed up with it, Martha? All the… faking?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You’re not just talking about the baking fundraiser here, are you?”
“No, I’m not. I’m talking about everything.”
She finishes off her glass and bites her lip. For a moment, I wonder if she’s about to tell me something real. If we might be on the edge of a breakthrough.
“Sweetheart,” she finally says, “if I didn’t fake it, I’d have nothing left. This is simply the way it is for women like us. Best not to question it or look at it too deeply.”
“Why not?” I ask.
She laughs lightly and wags a finger at me. “Because it might cause a rift in the space-time continuum. Or something like that. Nothing good would come of it, anyway. I’m just popping to the ladies’ room. Don’t drink all the wine when the new bottle arrives.”
She slides out of the booth, her form-fitting dress revealing the jut of her bony hips, the flatness of her ass. She looks like a skeleton in Donna Karan. Just as she disappears into the crowd, the wine turns up. I pour her a glass and one more for myself. Tonight is starting to taste sour. I’ll wait until she’s back, then make my excuses. I need to go home and add to my list: Find some new places to hang out.
I take a sip and glance around. So many familiar faces, but nobody I’m interested in talking to. There is nowhere as lonely as a crowded room.
I’m about to get out my phone and check for messages when I see him. When I seethem. They’re standing up, the table in front of them scattered with empty dinner plates and used glasses. Chatting and laughing, comfortable with each other, like all of this is perfectly normal. They’re on the opposite side of the room from me, and I’m hidden in my booth, staring with disbelief as I watch them walk to the exit. My husband and a woman—girl, really—that I recognize from photos. Melanie’s little sister, Ashley. The one who isbrightandbubblyand getting her MBA at Harvard. The one who is gazing up at my husband with an adoring smile, hanging on to his every word.
His hand goes to the small of her back as he guides her through the crowded bar, and it’s like someone has stabbed me in the heart. He’s smiling too, looking relaxed and happy and, naturally enough, drop-dead gorgeous. Ashley is holding several shopping bags, and he’s carrying a couple too. What the actual fuck? Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing here? Is my husband out on the town with a twenty-something child? Is Elijah a goddamnsugar daddy?
They reach the exit, and he takes her coat from her hands and holds it out for her to put on, like the gentleman he is. She giggles and thanks him, and I can see her eyes shining from here.
My heart feels like it’s going to explode, and I realize I haven’t taken a breath in way too long. I’m huddled up in the booth, watching them leave. Watching them stroll together along the busy city street, shopping bags swinging, stupid smiles on their stupid faces. I can’t believe he would do this to me.
All that talk about keeping things civil. All those times he asked if I was sure. The way he cried the night I told him I wanted a divorce. I’m starting to think none of that was real. If it was, he’s clearly consoling himself in the arms of Ashley Edison. Who is young, gorgeous, and obviously besotted with him.
I am devastated, but I’m also furious. How dare he? How dare he parade his new plaything like this, in a place where he’s known? He’s flaunting it, and it hurts. I would never do this to him.
The thought of Elijah being with someone new fills me with a sharp, pulsating pain. I feel like I’m being skinned alive. Maybe it’s not even new—maybe it’s being going on for ages, right under my nose. It could be why he moved into his own bedroom. Is he only pretending to be upset about the breakup? Is he playing nice to make sure I don’t hire a killer divorce attorney and skewer him?
Concentrating on my anger is far better than giving in to the pain. I jump to my feet, grab my purse, and scamper out into the night. I keep one eye on the happy couple, and one on my phone screen as I type a hasty message to Martha, telling her I had to leave. I’ll make it up to her later, if she even cares. The chilly air assaults me, and it dawns on me that I left my coat behind, but I don’t give a damn.
I feel ridiculous as I trail them, like I’m in a bad spy movie. I hide in doorways and dodge behind a group of office workers on a night out, making sure I never get too close. Elijah glances behind him a couple of times, as though he senses someone watching, but he never spots me. After a few minutes, they stop outside the lobby of a grand hotel. A familiar car pulls up beside them—the Bentley. I guess that solves the mystery of who gets Gretchen in the custody battle. My heart contracts as he opens the car door for Ashley, the same way he used to open it for me. He laughs at something she says and gestures for her to get in. Then he leans forward, his head and shoulders disappearing inside the vehicle. Is he kissing her? Is he fastening her seatbelt? Is he telling her he loves her?
He emerges again, closes the door, and pats the roof before the car drives away. Then he stands there for a moment, checking his phone, rubbing his hand over his beard and smiling. They’re probably sending each other messages. It’ll be all “miss you already” and rows of kisses. Probably some heart-shaped emojis too, because she’s twelve.
I’m disgusted to find myself on the edge of tears. Where is my backbone? I might have asked for a divorce, but he’s still my husband. He could have shown me some respect and waited five minutes before he found a replacement.
Elijah puts his phone in his pocket and wanders into the lobby of the hotel. I wait for a few seconds, making sure those tears don’t fall, and then I follow him. He heads straight for the elevator, where he presses the button and waits for the car. He’s wearing a charcoal-gray suit that fits snugly across his broad shoulders, a few buttons of his white shirt open at the collar. He looks so damn good, and I hate him for it.
I have no idea what I’m going to do or what I’m going to say. All I know is that I’m going to do something. The elevator doors open, and he waits to let a gray-haired couple out first. I run across the marble floor of the lobby, and the doors are already closing when I stick my hand into the gap.
ChapterTwelve
ELIJAH
