Keep Them Close(43)

For a moment—God help me—I lean in, too.

I let the possibility wash over me, warm and dangerous. His mouth inches closer, the air between us charged, my pulse knocking at my throat. I haven’t felt wanted like this in…I can’t remember how long.

Then something inside me lurches.

I pull back, abruptly enough that the chair legs scrape the carpet. “I…can’t.” My voice comes out low, strained.

He freezes, eyes searching mine, not pushing, not angry. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“No, Aaron—I’m as much to blame as you.” I bring my hands to my face. “Jesus.”

“That was totally inappropriate of me,” he says. “For many reasons.”

Not many reasons. Lord knows, it would not be the first dalliance between colleagues at this law firm, which will basically turn a blind eye to interoffice romance as long as both parties are happy and the money keeps flowing.

But one reason above all others: I am married. I am not Finley. I will respect that bond, even if I am the only one, even if it’s a marriage in name only.

It’s been nine months since I first learned of Finley’s cheating. Two months since I saw him with Trinity. I have let it simmer below the surface, stalling for various reasons—Grayson, our short-lived reconciliation after his knee injury, the Childress trial. I’ve let it fade to a dull ache. Maybe it took a moment like this, a split second of near surrender, to slap me in the face.



* * *





It’s close to ten o’clock when Finley saunters in through the mudroom. I’m sitting on the couch in the family room nursing a glass of wine. My feelings have had hours to fester. The notion of spending even one more night under the same roof with him now feels intolerable.

He startles when he sees me. “Oh—I didn’t know you’d be home.”

“Out playing cards?” I ask. “Wednesday night is poker night, right?”

He senses something’s off and doesn’t know how to react. “I should shower, get this cigar smell—”

“I don’t smell cigar,” I say. I get off the couch and approach him, lift my head and sniff. “I smell cheap perfume. You didn’t expect me home, so you didn’t try to hide her scent.”

“What? Whose scent?” he says, though his voice is weak, pitch too high.

“You tell me, Fin. How many mistresses do you have? Have you brought back Anna Cortese out of retirement?”

“I…” He tries to look confused, but his expression reads panic. “Where’s this coming—”

“God, you are such a coward.” I throw up my hands. “Doesn’t it get tiring?”

“Hang on, babe—”

“I’m not your babe,” I say. “And I’m not your wife anymore, either. Get out, Fin. Pack a bag and get the fuck out.”





34


Allison

I wake up before the alarm. For a disoriented moment, I reach to the other side of the bed but find only a flat, cool sheet. No sound of his breathing. No weight, no heat, no presence at all.

I trudge into the bathroom and flip on the light. My reflection looks startled. My hair is smashed on one side, the left sleeve of my T-shirt slipping off my shoulder. My face is puffy, eyes raw from crying. I look…emptied out. Like someone scooped the insides from me and left only the shell.

I am alone. I hear that word in my head, spoken by my mother. Allison Lynn, you’ll end up alone if you do nothing but worry about academics, if you don’t watch your weight and how you dress. Men don’t want to come home to—

Enough! Enough! I had shouted, less defiant and more frustrated, exasperated, desperate.

I rushed up the stairs and found myself just as I am now, standing before a mirror, holding the “paper razor,” back then from my backpack, now from the medicine cabinet.

Oh, how I wanted to do it back then, at age twelve, holding the razor blade to my face, daring myself to do it, to sink the blade into the skin just below my eye and carve it downward, to ensure that any talk of a man “wanting me” would cease once and for all. My hand shaking then, tears streaming down my face, my chest heaving, the blade poised against my skin.

I couldn’t do it. It made no sense, hurting myself to hurt her.

That was the moment, as I returned the razor to my backpack and looked in the mirror. The moment I realized that I would no longer submit to her choices, that I would make my own decisions, that I would be the person I wanted to be, that I would fight her tooth and nail if necessary. I’m Allison fuckin’ Rankin, I said to the mirror then. I control who I am. Nobody else.

It was, in many ways, the best day of my life. In others, the worst.

I blink out of my thoughts and meet my own gaze again. My throat tightens. Alone. The word feels both terrifying and inevitable—like it was waiting for me, lurking outside the frame of every mirror I’ve ever faced. My mother’s prophecy, fulfilled.

“Screw that,” I say to the mirror. “I’m Allison fuckin’ Rankin.”

I draw a deep breath. Terrifying, yes, this emptiness, but off in the distance is something better, full of possibility or, if nothing else, real. I’ve spun my wheels for years. There’s something liberating about clawing out of the ditch, even if the road ahead is unknown.