Chapter 4: The Version He Wanted Me to Believe
He came to the kitchen early the next morning, dressed for work, moving like nothing had happened.
"Coffee?" he said, reaching past me for the pot.
"It's already made."
He poured a cup.
He leaned against the counter.
He looked at me with an expression I recognized — the one he used when he'd decided how a conversation was going to go before it started.
"Last night got out of hand," he said.
"Did it."
"I want to explain about Dana."
"All right."
He set his cup down.
"We met at the Hargrove conference in March.
She's on the Whitfield account team.
We've had some late nights working through the restructure, and yes, we've become friendly.
But that's all it is.
Friendly."
"She misses you."
"People say things like that.
It doesn't mean—"
"Barrett." I turned to face him fully.
"I want you to look at me while you say the next sentence."
He looked at me.
"Is it only friendly?"
A pause.
Not long.
But long enough.
"Yes," he said.
I nodded slowly.
I turned back to the window.
"Okay," I said.
He picked up his coffee.
"Okay?"
"I heard your answer."
He was quiet for a moment.
I could feel him trying to read me.
"I know things have been hard," he said.
"I know I haven't been — I could have been more supportive.
With everything you've been going through."
"The menopause."
"I didn't handle that well.
I said things I shouldn't have."
I looked at the garden through the window.
The roses I'd planted the first year we moved in.
They needed cutting back.
"Why did you say them?" I asked.
"I was frustrated.
I'm not proud of it."
"Frustrated with what?"
He shifted his weight.
"With us.
With how distant things had become."
"I became distant," I said, "because you made me feel like something that had expired."
He didn't answer that.
"You made me feel like the problem was my body," I said.
"Like if I could just stop aging, everything would be fine.
And while you were saying those things to me, you were texting a woman who misses you."
"Renee—"
"I'm not finished." I turned around.
"I want you to understand something.
I didn't set that table last night as a performance.
I set it because I was trying to remember who I was before you started making me forget."
Something shifted in his face.
For a moment — just a moment — I thought I saw something real behind it.
Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.
His hand moved toward it automatically.
He stopped himself.
But not fast enough.
"Go to work, Barrett," I said.
"We're not finished."
"I know." I picked up my own cup.
"That's exactly the problem."
He left.
I heard the front door close.
I heard his car back out of the drive.
I stood in the kitchen for a long time.
Then I called Petra.
She picked up on the second ring.
"Renee," she said.
"It's been too long."
"I know," I said.
"I need to ask you something.
Not as a friend.
As a lawyer."
May you like
A short silence.
Then: "Tell me everything."
