Page 27 of Every Step She Takes
“I dealt with that growing up. I’m sure you did, too. Not from every guy, of course, but there are always some. That night, when Colt kissed me, I kissed him back, and when I pushed away, he thought I was playing hard to get. That doesn’t excuse what he did. But I think, once I clearly refused, he would have stopped.”
She nods, her gaze down. She agrees he wouldn’t have forced himself on me, yet she fears defending him, so she gives only that brief nod.
“This isn’t about what Colt did or didn’t do,” I say. “It’s about me realizing I hurt you, which I do, and I apologize for that.”
“And I realize I was wrong for not listening to you, for not reading your letter, for presuming you betrayed me, because that was easier than blaming my husband for his betrayal.”
“I understand all that,” I say. “It hurt, at the time, but even then, I understood. You had a family to protect. Maybe the truth could have helped, but honestly, the media circus was just about selling papers. We were the latest iteration of a popular tale – the wicked girl who uses her sexuality to tempt a good man, endangering his marriage to a good woman.”
She nods. “Circe tempting Odysseus, while Penelope keeps the home fires burning. Never mind that Odysseus chose to stay with Circe for a year – and she was only one of many women he slept with on his way home. We are all Circe or Penelope. Whore or Madonna. Never Odysseus. Never the hero of the tale.”
I shrug. “We can be. It just takes more effort than it should.”
She moves to sit beside me on the sofa. Then she hugs me, and I try not to break down into that hug. I accept it. I embrace her back. Then I withdraw.
“I’m glad we had the chance to talk,” I say.
“And now you’re leaving as quickly as you can.”
Before I can answer, she lays her hands on mine. “I want us to take control of the story. Not at Colt’s expense. He is still my children’s father, and he’s still someone I care about very much. This isn’t about demonizing Odysseus. It’s about excising him from our storyline.”
“Okay…”
“I want to go public,” she says. “The two of us with our story. The misunderstandings. The anger. You and Colt had a drunken moment together. Nothing more. If that’s–”
She stops herself. “I’m sorry. Notif. Thatisthe truth. I know it is. It makes sense for both of you. You were eighteen and unaccustomed to alcohol. We encouraged you to enjoy the champagne. Our marriage was non-monogamous, and what happened may have been –was– a misstep on his part, but the media blew it out of proportion.”
She gives a tight laugh. “Yes, I realize that doesn’t eliminate Colt from our story, but he’s only a side character. This is about us. Your misplaced guilt. Your experience with the press and the public. My misplaced anger. My experience with the press and the public.”
“I… No.” I pull from her grip. “This isn’t what I want.”
“It would help, though, wouldn’t it? It’s not what we necessarily want, but it’s what we need. We can control the message. We’ll make this about us.”
“About us… or about you?”
She goes still, and I twist to face her.
“You feel guilty,” I say. “You want to make amends. You want to give me this gift just as you gave me a weekend in this hotel fourteen years ago. But I’m not that girl. I don’t need gifts. I don’t want them.”
I get to my feet. “Iamglad we talked. I’m glad we cleared the air. But any attempt to fix this would be just as likely to blow up in my face. I don’t want another fifteen minutes of fame, even for the right reasons. I’m fine.”
“You’re living under an assumed name. You gave up your career, your talent.”
“I’m living under the name on my birth certificate. No, I’m not a concert violist. I didn’t graduate from Juilliard. Those are the dreams of an eighteen-year-old girl, Isabella. I teach music, and I play in a quartet and a small symphony, and I love it. I have a wonderful apartment and an amazing boyfriend. I won’t lie – I would also love to be free from the lies – but I don’t see a way to do that without risking the great life I already have. It’s not a gamble I’m willing to take. I’m sorry.”
I start for the door.
“Lucy,” she calls.
I turn. She’s still there by the sofa.
“Will you think on it?” she says. “I’ll do the same. I understand your concerns, but I believe we could work something out. A strategy to give us what we both need.”
When I don’t answer, she sees opportunity and pounces with, “Lunch tomorrow. I know you’re tired. You need time alone. Join me for lunch, and we’ll talk, and if we can’t come to a solution that satisfies you, then you’ll go back to Rome, and I’ll just be happy that we had this chance to talk.”
I pause and then say, “I’ll get back to you tonight.”
“Thank you. Let me give you my number.”
