Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [136]
But when he asks me if everything is okay, I hear sleep in his voice and realize that I must have just awakened him; that is all.
“I’m fine,” I say, taking a deep breath, making myself continue as I unwittingly picture him, shirtless, in whatever bed he’s been sleeping in for all these weeks, “I just want to talk .. . I’m ready to talk. Could you come home?”
“Yes,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”
***
Fifteen minutes later, he is standing on the porch, knocking on his own front door. I open it, and find him unshaven and bleary-eyed in an old pair of scrubs and a faded baseball cap.
I let him in, avoiding eye contact and mumbling, “You look dreadful.”
“You look beautiful,” he says, sounding as sincere as he ever has, despite the fact that I’m wearing jeans and a T-shirt, my hair still damp from my shower.
“Thanks,” I say, leading him to the kitchen, taking my usual seat at the table and pointing to his spot, across from me.
He sits, takes off his cap, and tosses it onto Ruby’s chair. Then he runs his hand through his hair, longer than I’ve ever seen it.
“I know. I know,” he says. “I need a cut. You didn’t give me much of a warning here ...”
I shake my head, indicating that his grooming is the least of my concerns, then burst out with it. “I met her last night. I called her,” I say. “I needed to see her.”
He furrows his brow and scratches his jaw. “I understand,” he says, and then stops short of asking any questions, which seems to require a certain measure of restraint.
“She was nice,” I say. “I didn’t hate her.”
“Tessa,” he says, his eyes begging me to stop.
“No. She was. . . She was honest, too. She didn’t try to deny anything, like I thought she would . . . In fact, she actually admitted that she’s in love with you,” I say, unsure of whether I’m baiting him, punishing him, or simply telling the truth. “Did you know that? I’m sure she told you, too . . .”
He shakes his head, rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands, and says, “She’s not in love with me.”
“She was.”
“No. She never was.”
“She told me she was, Nick,” I say, my anger ebbing and flowing by the second, with his every word, every fleeting expression.
“She thought she was,” he says. “But. . . she wasn’t. Love doesn’t work like that.”
“Oh?” I say. “How does it work, Nick?”
He stands and rotates to Frankie’s seat, now next to me, where he reaches for my hand. I shake my head in refusal but when he tries again, I reluctantly give it to him, my eyes welling with his touch.
“Love is sharing a life together,” he says, squeezing my hand. “Love is what we have.”
“And what did you have with her?”
“That was . . . something else.”
I stare at him, struggling to make sense of his words. “So you didn’t love her?”
He sighs, glances at the ceiling, and then looks at me again. I say a prayer that he doesn’t lie to me, that he doesn’t issue a flat-out denial when I know he loved her. Or at least thought he did.
“I don’t know, Tess,” he begins. “I really don’t... I wouldn’t have done what I did if I didn’t have strong feelings for her. If it wasn’t something at least approaching love, something that looked and felt like love . . . But those feelings—they don’t compare to my love for you. And the moment I came home and looked into your eyes and told you what I had done, I knew that. . . Tessa, I messed up so bad. I risked everything— our marriage, my job, this home. I still don’t know why I let it happen. I hate myself for letting it happen.”
“You didn’t let it happen, Nick,” I say, pulling my hand away from him. “You made it happen. It took two. It took both of you.”
As I say the words, though, I am struck by how much they apply to us, as well. That it took two to get us here. That it always takes two. For relationships to work, for them to break apart, for them to be fixed.
“I know,” he says. “You’re right. I’m not trying to shift the blame to anyone else . . . I’m just trying to tell you how much I love you.”
“Then how could you