Tear You Apart

  “Will...”

  His look is guarded, no expression. A blank. “I wanted to be with you, and I couldn’t. So I got pissed off. I don’t like wanting what I can’t have.”

  Well, I think, who does?

  But he wants me, that’s what I hear, and although it should make me feel better, it only makes me feel worse. I don’t want him to hurt. I never wanted that.

  “Should I leave?” I think I mean his apartment, but once the words are out, they could mean anything.

  “Yeah. I think you should.”

  My hand on the knob, I look at him over my shoulder. I want to be dignified about this. At least I want to try. “Should I not call you again?”

  He doesn’t answer for half a minute, and my heart breaks slowly, piece by shattered piece.

  “No. I’ll call you when I’ve had some time to think.”

  Fuck dignified. I’m too proud. “Don’t say it if you’re not going to. I’d rather you just tell me you’re not going to talk to me again than try to save my feelings or something like that.”

  His expression softens, still guarded, but not so blank. “I’ll call you.”

  I nod stiffly and let myself out. I hold my shit together all the way back to the gallery, where I lock myself in the bathroom and press my hands to my face to stifle the sound of the sobs I’m expecting to tear me apart—except they don’t come. Everything about me is bone dry.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  He does call me, but the conversation is bland as baby food, no flavor. The ocean is muffled and distant, the gulls silent when he says my name, and the smell is of old seaweed and fish, not fresh salt air and sand. I’m the one who makes excuses to end the call, but I think we’re both relieved.

  His text is simpler—a picture of the Brooklyn Bridge with late afternoon sky and clouds giving it an eerie feel. The work is lovely, even without any editing, and I tell him so. The next message is of his face, eyes covered by black Ray-Bans, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. I take a picture of my shoes, a pair of spectator pumps I picked up from a thrift shop. We trade these snapshots back and forth for the rest of the day without saying another word. Sometimes we use the emoji emoticons for our phones to make rebuslike messages that become more and more complicated, until one of us give up and has to ask for a translation. I’ve sent him one that I’m sure will make me the winner of this silly game...except that Will doesn’t reply.

  There really are only so many times when the same thing can continue to sting, so I push away the irritation and finish up my work. Naveen raps on my office door just before I’m ready to go home. His huge grin is supposed to charm me, but I know him too well. My guard goes up.

  “What?”

  “Business trip. You and me.”

  I laugh out loud, the first time all day. It feels good, to be honest. “You and me. Uh-huh. Where? What?”

  “It’s a buying trip. Philly.”

  “That’s hardly a business trip for me, Naveen. You want to stay at my house?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Ah.” I cross my arms as I lean on the edge of my desk. The toe of my spectator pump taps. “What do you need me for?”

  “Some business, for real. She has a collection. I want you to help me put a value on it.”

  I give him a suspicious look. “That’s not usually what I do.”

  “But you have a good eye. And you are officially a buyer for this gallery, and you do handle the invoices and receipts.”

  “And everything else. I still don’t get why you need me. Can’t you use one of your appraisers?”

  He gives me a look. I sigh and shake my head, but there’s no resisting him. Especially when he comes to hug me, nuzzling a little too familiarly at me until I slap him away. He kisses my cheek.

  “I told Puja I’d be with you. She’s going to call you.”

  “She’s suspicious?” That would be a first.

  He doesn’t say anything for a moment, which is answer enough. “I need you to cover for me.”

  “I could do that without going with you.”

  “I trust your opinion,” Naveen says honestly. “She has some great stuff, but some of it’s junk. You’ll give me an honest answer about it.”

  I sigh and check my calendar. “Fine. Ross will be out of town again, anyway.”

  “Thanks, Betts. I owe you. If you ever need...” He pauses. “Well. You know I’d do the same for you.”

  “You won’t have to.” It comes out sour.

  Naveen looks into my eyes, uncharacteristically quiet, though I can see he’s thinking hard about what to say. He kisses my cheek again, softer this time. He rubs my arms up and down. “I mean it, Betts. Anytime. Anything you need.”

  I could break down then. Sob on his shoulder. I could let him counsel me through this; God knows I’ve listened to him agonize over a lot of relationships over the years. The only one he’s never complained or confided in me about is the one with his wife. I could let Naveen comfort me, except I don’t deserve grief.

  I smile. “I’m fine. What time, where, what am I doing and how much do you want to spend?”

  On the train ride home, I tuck my phone in my bag and pull out a book to read instead. I used to spend this time with Will. And for a long while, I sit with the book in my hand and stare out the window, instead.

  Would this be worse, if I knew he didn’t want me at all?

  No.

  Because I know I have hurt him just by being me. Oh, God, all I wanted was... I just wanted...

  I didn’t know. I didn’t want this to happen. I didn’t seek this, it found me, and he was there, right there all the time. I didn’t do this alone.

  I am not the devil. I am not some temptress, leading him to sin. I never made him do anything he didn’t want to do. He was there right with me, every step, even sometimes urging me. Leading me. We did this together, so why do I feel it’s my fault, all alone?

  Pull me close. Push me away.

  And I understand, oh yes, I know why he has to step back and put up a wall, but that doesn’t make any of it better or easier. If he found someone else, my heart would break, but this is worse. This is worse because I know he wants me.

  But he won’t take me.

  Chapter Thirty

  Date night.

  It was my suggestion, one that seemed to surprise Ross. He said no, at first. Didn’t want to go out, had to get up early for work. Didn’t like any of the movies I wanted to see.

  I convinced him.

  Once upon a time I had fallen in love with this man, and I’d married him. We have children and built a life together. There’s value in that, no matter what else has happened or what I’ve done. I’m not in love with my husband anymore, but I’m trying to remember why I once had been.

  It’s easier than I deserve it to be. Ross can be charming, when he tries. Considerate. Even generous. He takes me to dinner after the movie and plies me with wine and regales me with funny stories from his travels. He’s treating me a little like he treats his clients—and I know that, but it’s an effort from him and I appreciate it.

  We talk about the girls, who’ve both grown up so well. Ross is proud of his daughters, as am I, but watching him talk about Jac’s new job and Kat’s recent work with her favorite charity, I can see exactly how much they mean to him.

  When I reach for his hand across the table, he takes it.

  When he reaches for me in bed, I let him.

  * * *

  Late at night, Will texts me when I’m asleep. I see I have a message when I get up to use the bathroom—too much wine with dinner. I think about not answering it, but 2:00 a.m. is still the worst time to miss someone. I go downstairs and thumb his number across the keypad. He sounds tired when he answers
, but I know he wasn’t sleeping.

  “I want you to be here, right now,” Will says without even saying hello. “And you’re not.”

  “No. I’m not.” I don’t say I wish I was there, too. There doesn’t seem to be much point. I’m not. I could be, if he’d given me the chance to make it happen, but even if I was there now, it wouldn’t be enough.

  Silence.

  I curl into a ball on the lumpy recliner we relegated to the basement when we refinished the den upstairs. The girls used this room for their sleepovers and parties and, let’s face it, their boyfriends. It’s damp down here, and chilly, even during the summer. The blanket I pull over myself has cartoon princesses on it and smells a little of the dog we used to have.

  “Where are you?” Will asks.

  “At home.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “No,” I say again. “I’m not.”

  “What does he think when you get out of bed in the middle of the night to talk to me?” I hear the click of Will’s lighter, the hiss of his breath.

  “He doesn’t notice.”

  “How can he not fucking notice?” Will says, angry. “What are you going to do when he does? What would you tell him if he said, ‘Who the hell are you talking to at two in the morning?’”

  I’ve thought about that, of course. What I’d say. What I should say or do, but haven’t and probably won’t. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, maybe you should fucking think about it!”

  I’m at a disadvantage, because I can’t yell. I have to swallow my words, make them soft, though they’re nothing close to sweet. “What do you want me to say? If you don’t think I should be talking to you in the middle of the night, maybe you shouldn’t fucking text me!”

  “You don’t have to answer!”

  “No,” I tell him, soft and slow and low and bitter and angry. “I guess I don’t.”

  More silence. I’m curled so tight that everything aches, but I can’t force myself to shift and make myself comfortable. I want to hurt.

  “But I always do,” I say eventually, when he doesn’t say anything.

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “Is that what you want, Will?” I’m weary of this. All of it. Even the brightest fires leave nothing but ash behind. “Because if that’s what you want, I can make that happen.”

  “I just want you to be here with me. Now. That’s what I want.”

  “Well. I’m not,” I snap. “I don’t like it, either, but unless something changes, that’s how it is.”

  Will’s voice is raspy. “Is something ever going to change, Elisabeth?”

  Even in the damp chill of the basement, I’m suddenly flushed. Not with passion, but a sick sort of anticipation. I have to think very carefully about what to say, how to say it.

  “Are you asking me to leave my husband?”

  “No.”

  I’m angrier now than I was before. “If you have something to say to me, if you want something from me...”

  “I don’t.”

  I am tired, I am depressed, I am sad and lost and on the edge of a cliff I don’t want to jump off but might just have to. And though I know better than to poke the monkey, because when you do, it flings poo, I poke, anyway. Hard.

  “A month from Friday, I’m going to be with Naveen, some buying thing. I’ll be out overnight here in Philly. Come meet me.”

  “I don’t think I can.”

  Of course he can. Even with his kid, his responsibilities, Will spends most of his time alone, and there’s plenty of time for him to rearrange whatever schedule he has to accommodate an overnighter out of town. Every time we’ve been together, it’s been me making the effort, me taking a trip into the city, arranging my schedule.

  “You make things important. Or you don’t. I can see you in a month. Overnight. I can’t be there now, but I can be with you—”

  “Sorry,” Will says in a cold, neutral tone that’s not sorry at all, not one bit. “It’s not going to work.”

  He’s right, of course. What about this could possibly work? Me and him, nothing alike, the only thing we have in common is how good it feels to fuck each other until we are raw and hobbling. There’s nothing to us aside from...

  Everything.

  Aside from everything.

  I swallow, and swallow again, all the anger, the disappointment, the tears. Sharp as razors, that’s what those words are against the tenderness of my throat, but I keep my voice as unemotional as his. “Fine. Whatever. I can’t make you do anything. You do what you want to do. In four weeks, I’ll be with Naveen at some stupid swanky club in downtown Philly, authorizing him to spend money he doesn’t have on stuff to impress some woman he thinks he’s in love with. You can be there or not. I won’t ask again.”

  “What about between now and then?”

  “Every day,” I tell him, “you will miss me either a little less or a little more. Until one day you will wake up and realize you don’t miss me at all, or you will find yourself incapable of living without me.”

  “And then what,” Will says. “Then what?”

  “Then,” I say just before I disconnect, “come find me.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Come with me.”

  I pause with my toothbrush at my mouth to look at Ross, next to me at his own sink. “What?”

  “Come with me to South Carolina. The weather will be great. The hotel’s nice. You can lounge around the pool....”

  I spit, rinse and spit again. “Ross, I have to work. I can’t just take off for South Carolina with you. If you’d asked me a couple weeks ago, maybe.”

  “Just call Naveen. He won’t care.” For a moment Ross’s brow furrows. “You can get him to give you anything you want.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Surprised, I shove my toothbrush back into the holder and put my hands on my hips. “Ross?”

  “It means that if you want to come to South Carolina with me, you could.”

  We stare at each other. I’m not sure what to say. Ross has never asked me to go on a business trip with him before, even back in the days when I’d have wanted to go.

  “I know you think my job’s not that important,” I say carefully, “but I made a commitment to Naveen to be there for this sale this weekend, and it is part of my job. I can’t just blow it off.”

  Ross frowns. “Maybe you should just quit.”

  “Why on earth would I quit?” I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.

  “To spend more time with me,” Ross says, and pulls me close. “When I retire.”

  I’m so surprised by this that I let him kiss me. “Are you planning to retire?”

  “Well...yeah. Of course.”

  “Soon?” It’s the first I’m hearing of it, and while I know I’m supposed to be excited by the idea, all I can think of is what I’ll do with him when he’s here all the time.

  Ross kisses me. Shrugs. Pulls away to finish splashing his face with cologne. “Sooner than you think. Everything’s always sooner than you think.” He turns and winks, giving me the smile that made me fall in love with him all those years ago. “Sure I can’t change your mind?”

  For one fleeting second, one breath, one tick-tock beat of my heart, I almost say yes. But I think he knew I really couldn’t come. I think maybe that’s why he asked, because when I shake my head, something like relief gleams briefly in his eyes.

  “I’ll call you when I get there,” Ross says.

  “Safe travels,” I tell him.

  He forgets to kiss me when he leaves.

  * * *

  I’ve met a few of Naveen’s women over the years, but this is the first time he’s ever formally introduced me to one. She’s pretty but not beautiful. Short, not
petite. And busty, yes, but also plump in a way she shields with well-tailored clothes, but which can’t be completely hidden. She’s so not like any of the rest of them—including me—that all I can do is marvel while trying not to show my surprise.

  Francesca supposedly doesn’t know I know about her and Naveen, at least that’s what he told me. Part of this package is not only providing him with official cover, but also pretending to her that I don’t know what they’re really up to. I didn’t ask him why it’s so important, but I do my best to smile and nod when he introduces us, and when she starts showing us around the pieces she’s trying to sell. Naveen doesn’t want to keep any of these. At least I thought the plan was to pick up the bulk of her collection and resell it immediately without even showing it. There’s always a market for “art” that doesn’t challenge anyone, in corporate settings that want something a little fancier than the usual portraits of pears.

  The arrangements are all made quickly, with little fuss, and I’m not even annoyed in the end. Maybe it’s because the actual collection is surprisingly eclectic. There are a few truly delightful pieces, well worth the prices she’s asking, and the others are all at least resalable. Or maybe it’s because I see the way he looks at her. His hand at the small of her back. The way she leans to listen to him when he points out something with one of the sculptures. I’ve never seen Naveen so...happy.

  “It’s done, then?” he asks when she’s settling up some things with the people who will pack the art for shipping.

  “All done. Are you satisfied?”

  He looks across the room at Francesca and then at me. “Yes. Thanks, Betts. You’re the best.”

  From my purse comes the loud, familiar ping of a text message.

  I already know it’s Will before I thumb the screen to check it. It’s been three weeks, six days and twelve hours since the last time we spoke. I thought I’d convinced myself I would never hear from him again, but the instant that chime rings, I know I was waiting for it all along.

  Hi