“I’ll never do it again. I don’t want to. I don’t—” He takes a deep breath. “It was the worst collision of events. Things weren’t good between us.”
“I’m aware. We had a number of brutal fights about it. But you promised me that things would get better after Sam moved out, and it all just got worse instead.”
“I don’t know why.”
“And I don’t care why, now. Go fuck yourself. I wanted that kink, and you gave it to her.”
“I didn’t. Not really. It was playacting. We’ve had better sex than that, Grace. We’ve had…” He licks his lips. “There has been…”
But he can’t say it.
It’s not like we didn’t have a good sex life.
Well, no. We didn’t have a good sex life. But we had a very decent one. I wanted it to be better, because I’m a stupid fool.
But at no point when he was fucking her—Caitlyn, the name I’ll never get out of my head—he never stopped fucking me.
It just got weird.
And bad, more often.
Sometimes good, though, and it’s those moments I replay viscerally, as if there is some meaning in the way he occasionally wanted me ever so, in between all the times he found me not quite enough.
“I can’t explain it. There is nothing that makes it right.”
“You wanted her more than me.”
“No. I wanted her less and told myself it was better that way.”
“Why did you stay with me?”
“Because I love you.”
I shake my head. That doesn’t make any sense. “You don’t like what I like, if we aren't interested in the same big… Luke, when I talk to you about art, you look bored. And when I brought up kink, you look terrified.”
“I’m not. Maybe I was, but that was for stupid reasons. I want to know more about what you like.”
I can’t believe that. “I can’t trust you,” I whisper. “Ever. You will never be the man I want.”
“Tell me about him. Tell me what you want.”
“I want a man whose mouth drops open when I strip down and I’m wearing lingerie. I used to strip in front of you and you didn’t even fucking notice. I want a man who finds my kinky interests exciting, not terrifying. I want a man who doesn’t run scared to another woman when things get tough, and stay there, fucking her, until he’s found out. You, Luke, are not what I want.”
He nods, his shoulders bunching, then sighs and changes the subject. “My therapist asked if you’re seeing someone.”
I shake my head. “Not yet. I will.”
“Good.”
“Not for you. Not for us. I’ll go see someone for me.”
“I’m here if you want to talk.”
“I don’t.”
“But you came to find me.”
“To confront you.” I point at the letter, my finger shaking. “That. The text messages. Your secret kinky life.”
“It wasn’t that kinky.”
“It was more kinky than you ever let yourself be with me.”
“Because I was scared,” he snaps.
I sit back, his anger the splash of ice water I needed. “Ooh, hello Luke. It’s been a week since I’ve seen you. But there you are. Push comes to shove, and Luke shoves back.”
“I’m a human being,” he says gruffly. “I have emotions. I’m not mad at you.”
“Then what are you mad at?”
“Myself!” He shoves a hand through his hair. “You don’t think I want to do kinky shit with you? I don’t even know what you want, and I want all of it.”
“Because you’ve lost your mistress.”
“I have forgotten she ever existed. You kicked me out, Grace. Remember? I don’t live with you anymore. This is the extent of my life, and I still want you. Only you. I’ve fucked up, but I’m still here. Whenever you’re ready, if you’re ever ready, I want you. Just tell me how.”
14
Luke
I don’t see Grace again for four days. I’ve started following her online, so I can see from her Instagram stories that the countdown is on to her art show. She’s going back and forth from the studio to the gallery.
Then, out of the blue, she texts me.
Grace: I need a favour.
Luke: Anything.
Grace: You said you didn’t want your name attached to the show. I want you to do the exact opposite of that.
Luke: Okay. Just tell me what or where to go.
She knocks on my door ten minutes later. She’s wearing a dress today, with tall boots and a rare full face of makeup.
I hope my expression reflects my awe at her beauty, but it probably doesn’t, because I’ve failed at showing her how much I love the way she looks at every turn.
Stepping aside, I gesture for her to enter my lonely bachelor pad. “Do you want to come in?”
“I’m on my way to the gallery,” she says in a rush. “But we’re having trouble getting someone from The Star to cover the show, I think because of the erotic nature of it, maybe.” She presses her lips together like she’s going to say more, then changes the subject. “So I want you to pull whatever strings you can to leverage our connection. ‘Wife of a Bay Street firm holds first show at a Toronto gallery’ might be a better angle for a story.”
“You want me to call the paper? Who would I call?”
“A business reporter you know?”
“I don’t, really. We have a media manager at work—”
“Then use them,” she snaps, and there’s that flash of anger again.
“Don’t you have connections?” I ask, which is entirely the wrong thing.
She stalks to the couch and flings herself onto it, crossing her legs. “Did it ever occur to you that Caitlyn might look at you—the long hours, zero recognition of your wife in public, no social media connection—and think, hey, maybe that’s one un-fucking-happy marriage?”
I blink, slowly, then shake my head. “No.”
“That wasn’t a part of why you didn’t want to celebrate what I do?”
“I— I don’t think it was conscious, Grace. I do want to celebrate—”
“So now what’s your excuse now? Why are you looking me in the face when I’m asking you for help, and telling me I should do it myself? Don’t you think I’ve tried my connections? It’s not the same, Luke. I’m a commercial artist with a following on the internet. That means nothing to the Toronto establishment.”
I exhale roughly. “Jesus, Grace.”
“What? Jesus, Grace, why do you have to be so rough on the poor, innocent man who only banged his lawyer for a while instead of taking care of things at home?”
Scrubbing my hand over my face, I fight back the protest that wants to roar out of me. I feel every muscle in my face tense up and then release. My mouth goes tight and I see red, but then it fades.
Another exhale, this one soft and long and sad.
And she watches me, her expression shifting to match.