IAN
James is back. Again.
Can’t the guy stay away?
I scowl.
“Did she go see him?” She did in June when James briefly returned to California.
“Yes,” Nadia says, and I’m devastated. I sink onto the edge of the couch in the living room.
Aimee’s reunion with her ex had been one I’d dreaded since returning from Mexico more than five years ago when we found James alive but living in a dissociative fugue state. She’d explained to me why she went to see him earlier this summer. She had to say good-bye. I thought that good-bye was for good.
Apparently not.
I’d been in Spain. It was one week before the Rapa started. It was a trip I’d wanted to take since Erik first told me about the festival several years ago. Upon landing, I called Aimee from the baggage claim to let her know I’d arrived. Her voice sounded strained. She blamed it on being tired, as she did again and again with each phone call during my fourteen-day trip. She sounded unenthusiastic and mildly depressed. It worried me. Our conversations felt off, forced. But I know her well. She was hiding something.
It wasn’t until I returned home and tucked an overjoyous Caty into bed that Aimee sat me down at the kitchen table. The bottle of vodka and two shot glasses should have warned me this wouldn’t be an easy conversation.
“What’s going on?” I asked warily.
“I saw James.” She then told me everything, and I mean everything.
We’d known James had surfaced from the fugue state the previous December. Kristen had told Aimee about James’s call to Nick, Kristen’s husband and James’s best friend. We knew James would return home. The question was when.
Well, I got my answer over a shot of vodka. He arrived the day before I left for Spain, Aimee told me. After dropping me off at the airport, Aimee had driven to James’s house. She hadn’t meant to see him, but she couldn’t seem to drive away. Then suddenly he was there, on the sidewalk, knocking on the passenger-side window. And she let him into the car.
“Do you love him?” I asked.
“No. Not in the way that matters.” Ribbons of tears cut across her cheeks.
“What’s the way that matters, Aimee? Do tell. Because to me, love is love.” I bit out the words, letting her hear my anger, my shock at finding out she’d kissed him. That James had pulled her onto his lap, and that his hands had been all over her.
“I am not in love with him.”
I felt my eyes harden, my expression chill, as I looked at her across the table. She was miserable. Her hand shook when she reached for the bottle, only to pull away. She folded her hands in her lap.
The kitchen was quiet; we were quiet, sitting on opposite sides in the dim light. I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes when I asked, “Do you want to be with him?”
“No.” She looked at me, appalled. “No!” she repeated more firmly. “I love you, Ian. I’m in love with you. I’m sorry I went to see him. I didn’t mean for it to get out of control the way it did and I can’t apologize enough. I’m sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”
I poured myself a shot, then another.
She watched me, and she watched the bottle, the quick pours into my shot glass and my fast empties as I tossed them back. “Say something,” she whispered when I finished.
I slowly shook my head. “I don’t think I should right now.” I excused myself and retired to my office. I told myself I needed time to sort this out. I needed to believe she did love me and wouldn’t leave me. But the truth? I didn’t need to convince myself of anything. I knew she loved me. I knew in my gut she wouldn’t leave me. As to forgiving her? I already had, long before James returned since I knew he eventually would. That’s how much I loved her. But it hurt. It hurt big-time.
Over the next few days, we talked about it, and gradually, over the summer, we eased back into a comfortable rhythm, though not quite at the same beat. But we survived James’s return. Our marriage was still intact. Or so I thought it was.
“I’m coming over. Tell Aimee not to leave.” Whatever James said to her, whatever he did to her, I needed to know what happened, right now. Not in an hour. Not tonight. And especially not tomorrow. Because the last time James was in town, he kissed my wife.
Scratch that. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a hands-all-over-James-would-have-fucked-her kiss had Aimee given him the chance. Had she told him yes.
But she hadn’t.
Thank God Aimee didn’t go back to him. Thank God James moved to Hawaii.
Then why is he back and what does he want with Aimee?
My wife.
The possessive thought punches through my skull as I hang up with Nadia and grab the car keys. Wondering what James will do and what he did with Aimee this afternoon has me racing down the freeway to Nadia’s flat in downtown San Jose.
I jab the code for Nadia’s underground parking garage and tuck the car into a guest spot. Within minutes, I knock on her door and she immediately answers as though she were standing on the other side, waiting. She smiles, lips closed and brows raised, and steps aside. I take it as a silent message of good luck. My heart taps a nervous, rapid rhythm against my sternum.
Any man—straight or swinging for the other team—would be captivated by Nadia’s auburn hair, jade eyes, and sharp facial structure. She possesses the type of beauty you can’t look away from, which is what I set out to achieve in the series of photos I took of her a couple of years ago. They’re mounted on the far wall of her open-space flat. I intensified the red of her hair and green of her eyes, a striking contrast to the living space’s palette of grays and wood grains.
But I don’t see these portraits. Nothing about my surroundings registers. I only have eyes for Aimee. She stands across the room, arms folded tightly so that her fingers dig into her lower rib cage. She stares out the window, a wall of glass looking out to the city’s lit downtown. Dusk has arrived, lending just enough light in Nadia’s darkened apartment to illuminate the moisture on Aimee’s cheeks.
I briefly close my eyes and send up a prayer of thanks. She’s here and she’s unharmed. Pressure builds in my chest with each rise and fall, pulling me in her direction. I want nothing more than to have her in my arms, to reassure myself that she is mine.
Nadia closes the door behind me.
“How long has she been here?” I ask.
“About ten minutes before you called. I’d just gotten home from work.”
Not long then, which means she was with James for at least as long as I tried to reach her. One and a half hours.
I swallow roughly. A lot can happen in ninety minutes.
“Has she said anything since our call?”
“Nothing except that she wanted to collect herself before she picked up Caty from Catherine’s house. My opinion? I don’t think she wanted to go home to you feeling the way she does.”
Which is how? Did she realize she is still in love with James and is afraid to tell me?
Nausea surfs a wave in my gut.
What did James say to her? What did he do to her? I might have met James when he was Carlos a couple of times, but I don’t know James. I’ve never met him.
Nadia adjusts the dimmer light and the flat brightens. Aimee blinks, her eyes adjusting, and wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand. I know she knows I’m here. She had to have heard me knock. I will her to look at me, but she keeps her gaze fixed on the glass.
Nadia glides a hand across my shoulders in a show of support. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
I nod, hooking my thumbs in my pockets, and approach Aimee. She turns at the sound of my boots on hardwood and holds up her hand, stopping me. She shakes her head. A prickle of dread coasts down my spine. I stop opposite the coffee table cluttered with magazines, books, and potted succulents. A basket of folded laundry rests off to the side, an odd, out-of-place piece in Nadia’s Home Décor living space.
“I’m just checking on you. I’ve been worried.”
She glances over her shoulder toward the kitchen where Nadia went. “I don’t want to talk here.”
I hold out my hand for hers. “Then let’s go home. I’ll take you.” Now that I’m here I don’t want to be apart from her.
She shakes her head again. “I’m not ready. You go. I’ll meet you there.”
“I’m not leaving you until I know what’s wrong,” I say, even knowing she doesn’t want to talk here. “After what happened this summer, I have the right—”
“Ian, please.” She groans in frustration and grabs a sock ball from the laundry basket, and for a moment, I think she’s going to throw it at me. Instead, her shoulders slump and the sock ball drops to the floor. Her chin dips and it breaks my heart. She looks so sad.
“I want to talk later,” she says. “Right now, I’m still . . . processing.”
Processing what?
“Aimee . . .” The not knowing, the uncertainty, it’s killing me. Please don’t tell me you’re in love with him.
A tear falls and it motivates me to act. One small drop off her chin and I close the distance between us, wrapping her in my arms. She stiffens and holds her breath. I murmur in her ear, telling her how much I love her. How much I care about her. I press my lips to her forehead and smooth my hand down her hair. Eventually, she relaxes and leans into me so that I’m supporting her weight. Then she cries.
I rock with her. “Baby, you’ve got to help me. We can’t fix this unless you tell me what’s wrong.”
Her arms rope around me and hook low on my waist. I lean back to look down at her. I can’t see her face. “Please tell me why you’re sad.”
Her breath shuttles out of her. “I’m not sad. I’m angry, or I was before you got here.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“No, I’m mad at me. I’m hating myself right now.” Aimee leaves my embrace and returns to stare out the window.
“Baby.” I follow. I lean my forearm against the glass and study her profile, the faint freckles that decorate her nose like a dusting of chocolate on latte foam. I gently run a finger down the length of hair where it meets her shoulder. “Why would you feel that way?” I ask softly.
Aimee folds an arm under her breasts. She knuckles off her tears. I want her back in my arms. I don’t like the way she’s withdrawing into herself, shoulders stooped and back bowed. I don’t like her keeping things from me.
We don’t do secrets, not after my tumultuous childhood and what she went through with the Donato family. We agreed to have an honest marriage with open communication. This includes discussing her past relationship with James, despite how much I want to despise the guy. Not that James has done anything directly to me. I just don’t like how he treated Aimee, let alone the psychological mind trip James sent her on courtesy of his brother Thomas.
Talk about a fouled-up family. I thought my parents had problems. Screw the cake. James and his brothers take the whole damn bakery in the dysfunctional-family department.
Aimee takes a deep breath. “I was fine while I was with him. We just talked, you know? He told me about his sons and how the three of them are enjoying island life on Kauai. I know how much I hurt you . . . hurt us . . . when I saw him last summer. I told myself I’d never go out of my way to see him again. But he called. He’s trying to move past all the shit his brother made of his life, and to do that he felt like he owed me an apology, face-to-face. He said I deserved that much after everything he’d put me through. So I met with him. I was fine while we talked, but afterward? Everything hit me and I started bawling and shaking and, goddammit, I was so angry. I thought I was past all this, what with counseling.” She finally looks up at me and smiles weakly, an apology.
“Aims,” I murmur. I caress her cheek with the back of my fingers, then let my arm fall to my side.
“Anyway,” she says with the flick of her hand, “I couldn’t stop crying. I drove around hoping to calm down before I had to pick up Caty, and when I couldn’t stop, I found myself here instead. If I came home as upset as I was, I knew I wouldn’t be able to clearly communicate to you why I went to see him, and I didn’t want you to jump to conclusions.”
I rub her back as I listen to her, hating she felt like she couldn’t come to me, and hating James more for making her feel this way.
“I don’t like how emotional he makes me. It reminds me how I used to be with him.”
“And how was that?”
“Naive and immature. Too trusting when I should have been asking questions.”
I adored the trusting Aimee and I love the woman she used to be. I especially love the woman she’s become while we’ve been married. Headstrong, confident, and passionate. The best mother I could ask for our daughter, which is important to me.
But stupid me, that isn’t what I latch on to. I’m still fixated on my earlier assumption that Aimee realized she still loves James . . . in the way that matters. Despite what she just told me, I can’t get the possibility out of my head.
“How often have you seen him since June?”
“What?” Aimee frowns, her expression off-kilter. I arch a brow, waiting for an answer. She tugs at the hem of her blouse. “Just today.”
“How much time did you spend together? When did he call you?”
“Jesus, Ian.”
Ice rattles in a martini shaker. “Drinks, anyone?” Nadia calls from the kitchen.
“No,” I answer without taking my eyes from Aimee’s.
“Yes.” Aimee sends me a cool look. “I told you, I don’t want to talk about it here.” She strides to the kitchen bar counter.
I fork my fingers through my hair and exhale harshly out my nose. I trail Aimee to the kitchen.
Nadia slides a dirty martini toward her. Aimee removes the olive-laden toothpick and downs the cocktail. She then reaches for my glass when she notices I’m not drinking it.
“I guess you were thirsty,” Nadia quips, toasting with her own glass. “Salute.” She tastes the cocktail, smacks her lips twice, and glances over her shoulder at the microwave clock. “I can order in Thai.”
“No, thanks. We have dinner plans.” I lean a hand on the counter, hook my other in my front pocket, and watch Aimee consume my martini, thankfully at a slower pace than her first drink.
“I’m not hungry.” She sets down the stemware.
“All right, then.” Nadia drags out the words. She rattles the shaker. “More cocktails?”
Aimee shakes her head and empties the glass. “I’m ready to go home.” She picks up her purse where she left it on the couch and goes to stand by the front door.
I sigh. Looks like we’re leaving.
“I’ll drive.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and call up my patience. I’m going to need it tonight before I say something else stupid that pisses off Aimee, especially when I should be doing the opposite: offering her a shoulder to cry on and an ear to listen. “Thanks,” I tell Nadia. “I’ll bring her by tomorrow to get her car.”
“No rush.” She lightly grasps my wrist. “You’re a good husband, Ian. She needs you right now. She’s hurting.”
We both are. “I know. And thanks.”
I join Aimee at the door. So much for celebrating my best news ever. “Let’s go home.”
We take the elevator down to the parking garage standing side by side without touching. I want to be angry with her. I want to rail at James for contacting my wife again. But all I feel is empathy for him, which surprises and irritates me.
I understand how James feels, the confusion and disorientation, the need to reach out to Aimee, the love of his life. I get how he doesn’t have a sense of lost time, and that, to him, it feels like he left Aimee yesterday.
I spent my childhood amid a similar bedlam. It wasn’t a fun place to be.
We reach the parking garage and I fumble the keys from my pocket. They drop on the ground.
“We need to swing by my parents’ and get Caty,” Aimee says, since she doesn’t know about the arrangement I made with Catherine, and it no longer matters. We don’t seem to be going out to dinner.
I pick up the keys. “I know,” I snap, pressing hard on the fob. The car unlocks, the sound echoing in the cavernous garage, and I jerk open her door. She sinks into her seat with a wary glance in my direction. Mustering some calm, I close her door.