I don’t say,I thought you were brave and beautiful. I don’t say,That last day, when you left the courtroom, I didn’t mean to follow you, but I did, and I saw you buy lunch for that homeless woman, even though we’d just taken all your money and you had every right to be selfish and keep every remaining penny to yourself.
“I thought you were in a shitty place and needed a better advocate than Sally DeSantis,” I say.
Goddamn. It turns out Eden was right—not talking would have been way better. There is no version of the universe where it’s okay for me to discuss the details of her divorce with her.
“Sally did fine.”
I clamp my jaw shut. Sally had traded half of Eden’s time with her dog for her budding business, and she didn’t have to. If she’d understood the intersection of divorce law and corporate structures better, she could have held out and gotten Eden both the business and full-time custody. And I’d hated Teller Austin, and it had just about killed me when I saw the grief on Eden’s face about her dog.
“I would have done better by you,” I say, because it’s the only thing Icansay.
“Yeah, well,” she says, “instead you fucked me.” And then, “Extremely poor choice of words.”
A laugh rucks out of me.
“I really hate you,” she admits.
“I’m used to it,” I say, although I’m not. I’ll never get used to her hating me. “Someone always hates me. Someone loves me and someone hates me, and I have to find a way to live with it.”
“Boohoo-hoo,” she says. “You chose to do it. You chose to be a shark. You could have chosen to do those, what do you call ’em? Nicey-nice divorces.”
“Collaborative.” I bite back a smile.Nicey-nice.Maybe I could have at one point. But I have a reputation now. You don’t ask a shark to help you figure out how to swim in the same pool as your goldfish ex.
I don’t say that. I say, “Yeah.”
She goes quiet, listening to Jeff Buckley’s “Last Goodbye.” “I do like this song,” she says. “I just think your taste in music is funereal. And grossly wrong for driving.”
“Well,” I say. “The playlist is only ninety-seven minutes long.”
8
Eden
Five hours, two dubious sandwiches, a playlist of dreary songs, and several innings of a baseball game on the radio later, we arrive at the beach house, still not having said more than a few words to each other.
Which doesn’t mean I wasn’t hyperconscious of his presence. Of my decision to put myself in a car with a man I hate.
Of the sharp, electric sensation of my hatred, buzzing through my body.
There are no cars here, and the house is locked up tight.
“Jesus,” Rhys says, surveying our surroundings as we unfold our stiff bodies from the seats. I put extra distance between us, grateful to be out of the car and away from him. “You said beach house. I was picturing a cabin.”
The house in front of us is definitely not a cabin. It’s a multistory wood-and-glass contemporary palace.
“Yeah,” I say. “My in-laws-not-to-be have a lot of money.”
Neither of us says anything to that.
I survey the Graves family beach castle—weathered cedar, windows facing the Pacific, carefully groomed gardens tucked around its foundation. “I really love this house. I’m going to miss it.”
Right now, I’m sadder about the house than about Paul. I’m a stew of humiliation, wounded pride, and a burning desire to find my quilts. When I think about not marrying Paul, I mostly think about things I won’t have: this beach house, financial security, bio-kids raised by married monogamous parents.
A question has been tickling my brain during the ride: Did I care more about what Paul could give me than Paul himself?
If Rhys has questions, he doesn’t ask them. Instead he says, “He’s not here. Where is he?”
He looks at me like this is a serious question. “I don’t know,” I tell him.
