Unspoken

by Kelly Rimmer

  I laugh in surprise, but then I glance at him and he’s staring at me expectantly. My jaw drops. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Two minutes ago you were trying to force me to leave and now you want to go out for dinner together?”

  “Oh, come on. For old times’ sake. We can go to that Japanese place we liked and drink sake and curse the world.”

  “That sounds like a recipe for disaster.”

  “Burgers and fries at the marina?”

  I groan and stand. “I came here to get away from you, Paul. I didn’t even want to think about you this weekend!”

  “Get away from me?” he repeats, then he laughs, freely and easily, as if I’ve made the joke. I scowl at him. “Why would you come here to get away from me? For fuck’s sake, Bel, this is where we met and decided to live together and got engaged and shared most of our best days together. Say you came here to sulk over me. Say you came here to grieve our marriage. That I could believe. But to avoid thinking about me? Give me a little credit.” He shrugs, then he meets my gaze directly.

  I’m embarrassed by his observation, but then Paul reaches up and fumbles for my hand.

  What is he doing? It’s a tender gesture, not at all the kind of thing I’ve come to expect from Paul Winton. As his skin slides against mine, my heart starts to race, and I have no idea what to make of that. No idea at all. This moment just feels dangerous in every possible way.

  “Please, Bel?” he whispers.

  Fuck marriage counseling and fuck legal mediation—Paul achieves more with that wide-eyed plea and the touch of his hand than the therapist and our attorneys have in all of the months that have passed. I stare down at him, stricken.

  “Paul...”

  He brings my hand to his lips, and he clumsily kisses the skin there once...twice...three times. There’s no finesse whatsoever in the movement—he’s far too drunk for seduction. It’s a ridiculous gesture that suggests an affection I know he doesn’t even feel for me now.

  Still, I haven’t really had contact with a human male other than clients at work in ten months now, and the touch of his lips to my hand has an immediate and unexpected impact.

  I want him to kiss me more.

  I’m conflicted, because I genuinely do not want to be anywhere near the man, but at the same time, apparently, I wouldn’t actually mind all that much if he kissed his way along my arm to do that thing he used to do to my neck that somehow was the perfect blend of tickle and tease.

  I snatch my hand away and groan. “Fine. Dinner, just so you can sober up and...not injure yourself, I guess. Then we avoid each other for the rest of the weekend, you give me the Wi-Fi password, and then you stay in the bedroom as much as you can so I can use the big TV in the living room.” I remember the laptop, then add another caveat. “Also, since I’m doing you a favor, you have to promise to forgive anything else I may have, you know, inadvertently done to offend or upset you since we arrived. Anything. Deal?”

  “Absolutely. That all sounds great,” he says, and he swings his legs over the edge of the sun chair and stands. The blanket falls to the ground.

  “And you have to wear clothes, Paul.”

  “Also a very reasonable request,” he agrees, but then he sways and throws his arm across my shoulders for support.

  I automatically wrap an arm around his waist and steady him, and then find myself in the bewildering situation of being tucked under his arm as if he’s hugging me. And oh my God, that scent—it’s Paul’s scent, and this is exactly why my first impulse was to wash the damned throw blanket, because now I’m drowning in memories again. I’m surrounded by musk and deodorant and him, and that combination is the perfume of love and lust and the very best years of my life.

  I look up at him, and his eyes are sad and distant and guarded but then suddenly he’s gearing up to tease me, and I know it because his gaze lightens, and the corner of his lip turns upward just a little. I had actually forgotten that relaxed Paul can be pretty funny. It’s been a long time since I saw him let his guard down.

  “I mean...yes, Bel, I can wear clothes if you want. If you’re sure that’s what you want?”

  “It’s what I want,” I croak. “Can you dress yourself?”

  “Almost definitely,” he says.

  I help him inside, then he lifts his arm from my shoulders and walks to the open suitcase on the bed. I head down to my own room and pull on my shoes and a sweater over my tank top, but then decide I really should keep an eye on Paul, in case he trips or something. So I jog up the stairs again, then wait at the door to the master bedroom as he drags briefs on and then fitted jeans and a T-shirt and jacket.

  This time last year, Paul would never have worn that outfit—it’s new and a little trendy, the kind of outfit a budding tech entrepreneur should wear, not at all his old, lazy style of jeans three sizes too big and T-shirts with holes on the seams. I wonder if his sense of fashion really has changed so much and so quickly. Did he have to buy new clothes to accommodate all of that new muscle?

  Or...oh shit...

  Does he have a girlfriend?

  Because now that I’m really looking at him—there are other changes in his appearance, too. He’s always worn his dark brown hair short, in a no-nonsense buzz cut, but since I last saw him he’s grown it out and the softer style just suits him so much. Paul was always clean-shaven when we were together, but he’s sporting a heavy stubble right now. On anyone else, I might have called that same look “designer stubble.” Maybe his new girlfriend prefers him with facial hair, and I could almost understand why. That stubble is like an underline, emphasizing the strength of his jaw and that square chin.

  Suddenly, I’m certain he’s seeing someone. She’s smarter than me, and she’s like his ex-girlfriends before me—a programmer or an engineer or some other tech-savvy profession so they have that in common—unlike Paul and me. I mean, I remain genuinely confused about what “the cloud” actually is, even though he’s tried to explain it to me no less than half a dozen times.

  Paul probably texted her to tell her that I’m here, and I’ll bet she’s not pleased. Maybe she’s even going to come out here to be with him. What if he has a girlfriend and what if she arrives and they’re fucking in the room above me? What if I have to hear his orgasm groans, and I’m not the person causing them?

  I’d have to leave the house if that happened. I just could not bear it.

  It was my decision to leave him, and I have no right to be jealous. Reminding myself of that doesn’t change the fact that I am—not one little bit. I am jealous, and suddenly I’m stung by the very thought that he might have moved on from our marriage already.

  “This isn’t a good idea,” I say suddenly, and Paul looks up at me. He’s pulled his shoes on, and now he stands, evidently oblivious to the fact that his fly is still undone. He crosses his arms over his chest and the T-shirt pulls around his biceps.

  His shirts never used to pull across his biceps. My gaze catches there for a moment too long, and out of the corner of my eye I see that Paul has tilted his head and he’s staring at me. I force my eyes onto his, to find his gaze is questioning.

  “Why isn’t this a good idea?”

  “I just...” I don’t want to ask if he’s seeing anyone. It would be awkward, and I don’t want things to be awkward. I’m well acquainted with angry by now, and shit, it seems I can even deal with rolling drunk, but awkwardness between Paul and me is an unknown factor.

  He’s still staring at me, so I blurt, “Are you seeing someone?”

  There’s a long pause. Paul’s gaze doesn’t shift from my eyes. Great. He picks today to decide he’s comfortable with eye contact after all. For the first time in living memory, it’s me who looks away from him.

  “Why would you ask that?” he asks eventually.

  “Your clothes. You have new clothes...” I swallow the lump in my throat. “Nicer cloth
es. And the haircut and the... You just never cared about that kind of thing before so...”

  Paul blinks, then he takes a step toward the door. I can tell he’s pissed and he seems defensive. That seems a confirmation that he is seeing someone, and I can’t help the way my shoulders slump.

  Don’t you dare care, Isabel. Stop caring! You shouldn’t care. Why do you care?

  After a fumbled first attempt, Paul scoops his wallet off the dresser and presses it into his back pocket. He leaves his cell phone on the dresser, and I notice that because he always takes it everywhere. He was always working on it in one form or another—answering emails in the back of cabs, texting at the dinner table, reading code or reference guides or design specs as we supposedly watched TV together.

  “So I’ll stay here?” I throw after him, as he disappears into the stairwell. “Will you be okay?”

  “No to both,” he snaps, and he fills the doorway again. My gaze drops to his still gaping fly. He mumbles a curse as he bends to zip it awkwardly, but then he lifts his gaze to me and he says flatly, “No, you won’t stay here, no, I won’t be okay. You’re coming with me, so let’s go.”

  “But if you have a new girlfriend...” I start to protest, but I trail off because I don’t even know how to finish that sentence.

  He looks away to the floor beside me, and a thick, heavy silence fills the room. When Paul eventually speaks, his voice is so quiet I have to strain to hear it.

  “How little you must have thought of our marriage to think I would move on so quickly.”

  The bitterness in those words cuts across everything else in the room—across the tension and across my stupid, irrational jealousy. It even cuts across my hesitation to go to dinner with him, because now, I actually want to follow him down the stairs to see if he’ll talk some more.

  When I first started thinking about leaving, I worried that I might hurt Paul, but over time, I consoled myself that I couldn’t. I mean, he’d never seemed hurt about anything that happened in his life—Paul is the kind of guy who just always seems balanced. The way he failed to react the night I left seemed to confirm my suspicions.

  I told myself that the walls around Paul’s heart were so high and so strong that not even the breakdown of our marriage could cut through. Even over the months that have passed since that night, Paul has seemed angry at times, but he’s never seemed wounded.

  This very moment happens to be the first time in our entire life together I’ve seen evidence that hurting Paul Winton is actually possible.

  I really thought I wanted this.

  I thought I wanted to lash out and to wound him the way he’d wounded me when he pulled away from me. But forced to face the proof that Paul Winton does indeed have a softer side, I suddenly feel sick. I’m embarrassed at the way this conversation has gone and the very obvious reality that my jealousy was the thing that pushed it there, and hopeful only that he is drunk enough to forget this tomorrow.

  Paul raises his gaze to mine, and he motions vaguely toward the stairwell. “It’s just dinner, Isabel. I want to eat with you. I want to sit with you on the pier and hear how you’re doing. We meant something to each other, something more than financial settlements and lawyers and litigation and all of the shit of this year. Can’t we just share a meal without it being complicated?”

  “But it is complicated.”

  “It’s as complicated as we let it be,” he says, and the slur is clearing and he’s making more sense than anything has in the longest time. I’m still hesitating, but he extends his hand toward me and his gaze shifts—no longer hard at all, those beautiful brown eyes are now pleading with me.

  It actually matters to him that I join him for dinner. I had convinced myself that it didn’t matter to Paul what I did or how I felt, and yet here I am, staring into those intense brown depths and facing the undeniable evidence that if I was ever right about that at all, things really have changed. Holy shit, it’s like I’ve slipped into an alternate universe.

  “Are you coming? Please do.”

  I swallow, and I look at his hand. Does he mean to entwine our fingers, to let those hands swing between us as they always did? Because now that I force myself to think about it, he always held my hand. Always. Even at the end, when we used to walk side by side in silence, it was always hand in hand.

  I can’t let that happen now. It’s not appropriate for where we are now. I shouldn’t even want it. How could I even want it? I can barely even stand to be in the same house as the man these days...

  And yet, I slip into autopilot and walk to him briskly, then I let him take my hand. His fingers slide through mine, and then his hand locks in place. It feels better than good. It feels better than relief. The simple contact is everything, and it’s nothing, and I’m too bewildered and exhausted to process any of this.

  Paul doesn’t smile. He just stares at me for a moment, and then he gently tugs me down the narrow staircase behind him.

  “First stop,” he announces as we step through the front door, “the liquor store.”

  “I think you’ve had enough for tonight,” I say weakly, and he shakes his head.

  “Not for me,” he says grimly. “For you.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Paul

  WHAT THE FUCK am I doing?

  Actually, I know what I’m doing. I just don’t know why I’m doing it.

  I’m walking to the burger joint Isabel and I used to frequent when we visited Greenport. This will be our second visit today, the first being ten minutes ago when we climbed out of the cab and stopped in to order. While they cooked our meal, we walked along the street to the liquor store—now I’m carrying a bottle of organic Riesling in my right hand.

  My left hand is still threaded tightly through the fingers of my almost-ex-wife.

  I should not be holding Isabel’s hand. It’s a pretty, soft hand—a hand that knows how to work magic—but it’s not my hand to hold anymore. I keep telling myself to let it go, casually, of course. She won’t mind at all. Frankly, I don’t have a clue why she let me take it in the first place.

  Isabel’s curls are loose around her face and shoulders tonight. She’s wearing a sweater over her yoga pants and she looks fucking magnificent—breathtaking, actually, because when I forget I’m not supposed to look at her and I flick a glance her way, I do forget to breathe. I remember that used to happen when we first met, but it’s a novelty to have it happen again now, when my life feels so utterly devoid of novelty. I feel old and stale and cynical about every aspect of the world these days, except, perhaps, these bewilderingly magical moments, when I can look at Isabel and once again feel the magnificent shock of my breath catching in my throat at the sight of her.

  “Quit staring at me,” she mutters as I go in for one last sneaky glance, and I play it cool and shrug and don’t say anything, but I’m not entirely sure I stop myself blushing at having been caught out. I feel like a teenager on my first date, but this isn’t a date—I don’t even know what this is. Is this a thing? Do almost-ex-spouses sometimes hold hands and have meals?

  I’ve often felt like someone should have been appointed as a mentor to guide me through the divorce and to explain to me how the hell things escalated the way they did and to give me definitions for legal terminology and words for all of the bewildering feelings that have been bouncing around inside me for the past year. Now I picture that wise, older mentor sitting opposite me at a coffee shop, explaining this new development.

  Occasionally, just before a divorce becomes final, a husband and wife might find themselves sharing a vacation home for a few nights and if that does happen, you’re allowed to hold her hand and share a meal with her. It might feel a bit weird after months of hostility, but just go with it. What harm can it do? You used to hold hands all the time, every single day for years, actually. It’s only natural to do it one last time. You’re allowed to enjoy it and y
ou don’t have to think too much about why.

  My imagination suddenly corrects this scene into something a little more plausible, so now the mentor is staring at me in horror.

  Uh—no, Paul, that’s not a thing. So let go of her fucking hand before you make things worse. What’s that? Things can’t be any worse? Well, let me break it to you, son—I know it’s hard to believe, but there really are ways you can fuck this up more and holding her hand leads to every single one of them.

  Right at that moment, Isabel releases my hand and walks to the counter of the burger joint to ever so politely thank the server and take the paper bag with our food into her arms. She comes back to my side, but now her hands are full and that effectively solves the problem of that messy holding-hands situation. Now we’re just walking side by side, Isabel holding the parcel of hot food against her chest. I shuffle the wine out from under my arm to cradle it against my chest, too, mirroring her posture.

  I’ve learned a thing or two about communication this year. One surprising discovery I made is that when someone is listening, they tend to mirror the speaker’s posture. It’s amazing what hundreds of hours of therapy can teach a guy.

  “Are you still living in the brownstone?” she asks me suddenly, and now that we’re talking, I feel like maybe I’m allowed to look at her again and so I do. She has magnificent blue eyes, and she uses eye contact like a red carpet to welcome conversation with people.

  I loved her from the minute our eyes met, and that still doesn’t entirely make sense to me. Love at first sight is a ridiculous notion. I always thought the very idea of it to be a romantic fallacy, a trope that existed only in movies and books. But there’s no denying that there was something about Isabel that entranced me right from that first second, and it wasn’t just her beauty. It was her openness. Her warmth.

  Work had been so busy in the months leading up to that weekend, and Jess, Marcus and I had decided to take a long weekend together to relax and regroup. We’d planned to just head away by ourselves, but somehow our little trio expanded until my house here at Greenport was bursting at the seams—my brother Jake had joined us with his then-girlfriend, Marcus invited Abby and she turned up with her then-boyfriend, and then Jess told me she’d invited her new friend Isabel. I don’t love crowds, but Marcus and Jess happen to be social butterflies, and that wasn’t the first or the last time we had so many people at the vacation house that someone had to take the pullout sofa.