Shame (Secrets and Lies Book 2)

by Ainsley Booth

  Grace

  The morning of the show, I do something I’ve been putting off for two weeks. I go to public health and get tested for sexually transmitted infections. It’s an anonymous clinic, straightforward, and I’m told I’ll have results within a week.

  It’s the first time I say out loud to another human being that my husband cheated on me. The nurse asks if I need any other resources, and I take a pamphlet on counselling.

  “Has he been tested?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “He should.”

  That really doesn’t feel like my responsibility, but she’s right. I stubbornly want him to come to that conclusion on his own. He keeps saying he wants to make things right, fix us, but that has to start with fixing himself and taking responsibility for the mess of his own life.

  He stepped up with press support for the show, though. Better than I expected. On our walk yesterday he told me he’d arranged for The Star to do a spread on the show, as I asked, but his media manager at work had also made some calls to magazines, and he’d followed up personally with invitations to opening night.

  It was more than I asked for, and almost too good to be true.

  So I stupidly get my hopes up.

  And yes, photographers show up mid-afternoon at the gallery to take daytime photos of the pieces. I get pre-show calls from reporters, and it sounds from their questions like the bent of the articles is in the direction I want: serious art with erotic undertones, an unexpected new star on the Toronto scene after commercial success, blah blah blah.

  It’s great.

  But then the show starts, and Luke is nowhere to be seen.

  I’m an idiot for hinging my happiness on him, of course. I know that. And yet a few days of regular contact and thoughtful conversation tumble me back into that idealistic place of wishing my husband wasn’t a fragile man child.

  His brother shows up, though. I’m standing with Alex when Sam and Hazel arrive. She waves energetically, bless her heart, and warmth floods my chest. I can do this. I have friends.

  None of them know I’m dying inside, but it’s a slow death. Subtle.

  Someone else approaches and Alex introduces them. I lose sight of my brother-in-law and his girlfriend as Sam shows Hazel some of the Damien Noble work he got a sneak peek at when I first brought him to the gallery.

  That was the last time I saw him, I realize with a start. Other than Alex and Damien, I haven’t seen anyone since I found out about the affair.

  And Luke.

  And a nurse at public health, who advised me not to have sex with anyone until I got the test results back.

  But I’ve avoided Sam, and even though I’m glad they’re here, I’m also glad I’m too busy shaking hands to really talk to them.

  The next person I see is Zeke Devereaux, owner of The Wheelhouse, and the patron of this show. He looks like a biker, but he knows more about the art world than I ever would have guessed from my past encounters with the kink club owner. I’m grateful for his patronage, and I make sure to tell him that when he brings two guests over to introduce them to me.

  “Are you kidding me? I do this kind of thing selfishly. This helps me find the kind of members who can afford to fund the outreach programs Caro loves to put on.”

  Zeke’s wife runs daytime programming for people who want to learn more about how to explore alternate lifestyles safely, and she’s one of my most favourite people in the world. “You know I think that’s amazing.”

  “Then we have a mutually beneficial arrangement.” He shakes my hand. “And I just bought Death of a Marriage, by the way. It’ll be going on display at the club.”

  That’s my most expensive piece. I priced it high enough that I thought maybe nobody would want it, and I’d get to take it home.

  That was before. When I thought I was in control of my marriage, and when or if I wanted it to end.

  Now? I’m stunned. “Thank you,” I say again. “Although it hardly feels like it’s sufficient.”

  “Stop.” He laughs, and I apologize again, and one of his guests—an American—comments that it’s a very Canadian back and forth.

  Zeke drifts away and I get into a deep conversation with the American about organizing shows from a distance, and it’s only when she gives me her card that I realize she’s a gallery owner in California.

  “I’d love to talk about you bringing this show to San Diego,” she says warmly.

  I’m bowled over. “I’d love to,” I admit. “But these pieces are all being sold.”

  “Some buyers don’t mind loaning their pieces back to a collection for a show, if it increases the value of the piece. Something to think about.”

  Indeed. There’s so much to this end of the art world that I still need to figure out. “Thank you, I’ll be in touch.”

  Conversations like that slowly spin me from one end of the gallery to the other, and I’m out of breath when Sam and Hazel finally find me near the bar.

  “Congratulations,” my brother-in-law says, giving me a tight squeeze. “You made Hazel’s night, too.”

  His cheeks pink as she bursts into an excited story about meeting Zeke Devereaux for real this time.

  “He’s a pretty cool guy,” I say. Then I lean in. “We should get coffee so we can talk more freely about the kink world without Sam combusting right next to me.”

  “It’s fine,” he grumbles.

  Hazel claps her hand. “I’d love to catch up.”

  We’re picking a date when all the oxygen in the gallery seems to suck towards the door.

  My heart lodges in my throat as I turn and see Luke standing in the entrance. He catches my gaze and nods, then takes in the fact that I’m standing with Sam and Hazel.

  We’re Prestons. We can’t make a scene.

  So when he joins us, he gives me a quick kiss that sears the corner of my mouth and steals my breath. He’s supposed to kiss me. He’s my husband.

  Then he plants a hand in the small of my back and rubs a reassuring circle there as I stare up at him, scared to look anywhere else, unable to look at Sam lest he figure out that we’re fighting again, but this time it’s different, this time Luke has gone too far, this time I can’t handle him kissing me.

  Why did he kiss the corner of my mouth? Why not my head? I love the way his lips feel brushing my temple.

  God, pull it together, Grace.

  Luke is shaking Sam’s hand, which is a weird thing they do, but again, Prestons. Are. Weird.

  Hazel is watching me, then she leans into Sam and smiles. “We should get going.”

  Like she knows something is wrong, and she’s protecting Sam from it. I can’t say I blame her. I nod, and remind her that I do want to have coffee soon.

  When we’re alone, Luke steps back a little, giving me a bit more space. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he mutters under his breath. “I was working on something and time got away from me.”

  Old Grace would let him off the hook. That’s not me anymore. “I was worried you weren’t going to make it.”

  “I felt like shit when I realized how late it had gotten. And then I had to shave and shower and…” He glances around. “I haven’t missed the press, have I? They said they’d be here toward the end of the night. I wanted it to be really busy when—”

  “They haven’t come back yet. That part is fine.”

  He exhales sharply. “Good.”

  “Do you want a drink?”

  “No, I’m good.” He glances around. “I want to see the show. Do you have time to take me through it? Is there a booklet? How does this work?”

  “We’ll be interrupted as we go, but as long as that’s okay…”

  He wraps his hand around my elbow, turning me so we’re looking right at each other. “This is all about you. I just want to watch and celebrate.”

  My arms are bare tonight, I’m wearing a silky, sleeveless black turtleneck over my favourite skinny black trousers, and I thought it was a perfect artsy outfit, the right m
ix of conservative and unexpected. I hadn’t thought about what it would feel like to have my husband pressed against me, his hands on my bare skin.

  I can’t breathe.

  I want to arch into him, have him tighten that grip to the point it leaves marks.

  That’s not what we have. That’s not what I am to him.

  Another thought, one even more dangerous, whispers so quietly I can’t really hear it. I twist away from Luke, grabbing his hand because that’s better than him holding my arm, and I drag him to the front of the gallery.

  Booklet. Check. “Here you go.”

  I shove it into his hands, and he nods. “Right. Alex gave me one of these. Sorry, I forgot.” He gives me a sad smile.

  Nope, we’re not doing sad right now. I squeeze his fingers. “It’s all good. So this is my first piece…” I slide into my shtick, the narrative that is mostly true and safe for public consumption. It falls apart when we get to the back of the gallery, but it takes us almost an hour to get there, and by then, I’m used to having him stand next to me and look at my creations, my heart’s deepest desires come to life in three dimensions outside my body.

  And then it’s time for the final piece.

  I’ve caught him looking at it already.

  Death of a Marriage.

  It’s poured plaster, with metal and fabric embedded in it. It’s the same pose Luke struck for me eighteen years ago. His body is bigger now, and in the sculpture, it’s even bigger than he is now. This is Luke at the worst of the firm’s crisis, when he was thick around the middle, not taking care of himself. Some of that weight had fallen off in the last year, and even more dropped since I found out about the affair.

  The arms wrapped around him are mine. I cast them from a rubber mold that I made by actually embracing the plaster body.

  I love it, and I hate it. I had felt such liberation when I made it six months ago, but then I didn’t leave him.

  I’m not as brave as this creation. Fly, my lovely. Fly far away.

  But I don’t.

  Luke stands in front of it silently for ages. Then he clears his throat gruffly. “That’s…”

  “It was…” I can’t.

  He wraps his arm around me, his fingers caressing my shoulder. “It’s brave.”

  “I don’t know about that.” I twist away again. “I’m going to get a drink.”

  He follows me to the bar, and Alex joins us. He has a friend with him, and they’re heading out. On their way out, they pass the photographer from The Star, who asks if he can take a picture of Alex.

  Our friend refuses. It wouldn’t do for a middle grade fiction author to be photographed at a kinky art show.

  Echoes of Luke, not wanting the Preston name attached to the show.

  And yet now he waves the photographer over, introduces himself, and is happy to pose for a whole set of pictures with me.

  By the time the show winds down, my cheeks hurt, my heart aches, and my feet are ready to fall off.

  Luke drives me home, and I don’t complain. Then he walks me to my door, which I also don’t hate. When I unlock the door, he leans against the wall instead of heading for the elevator as he has the last couple of days. I give me a narrowed-eye what are you doing look.

  He grins. “I’m going. I just want to make sure you get inside safely first.”

  I laugh and push the door open, but then the chuckle dies.

  The loft is full of balloons, and there’s a bottle of champagne sitting in an ice bucket just inside the door. Beside it is a newspaper, but when I step inside and pick it up, I realize it’s today’s paper with stuff glued to the front.

  He’s made a headline from other words and pasted over the real headline. The cobbled together one reads, Local Artist Stuns City With Incredible Show.

  The photo below it is a picture of me in my studio, which he must have printed from my website.

  It’s very thoughtful.

  “One day you will be front page news. Canada’s own dirty Banksy, and I’ll remember tonight as that turning point. I’m not the artist that you are, but I did my best to capture—”

  I spin around and throw my arms around him, cutting him off. “It’s great,” I mumble into his chest. “Thank you.”

  “Step by step,” he whispers.

  I twirl forward, grabbing some of the balloons, letting myself just be happy for a minute. When I stop, he’s picked up the bottle of wine. “Do you want me to open this for you?”

  “Do you want to share it?”

  “Yes.” Another grin. I’ve missed his smile. “But if you want me to leave you alone with it, that’s fine too. Pour yourself a glass and go have a bubble bath.”

  That sounds nice, but company sounds better. “No. I want you to stay.” I glance around the loft. He let himself in here earlier, which is…a problem. But a sweet one, and I’ll worry about that tomorrow. “Stay here. I’ll get glasses.”

  “We could move to the couch,” he calls after me.

  “Don’t be so familiar,” I holler back.

  I grab two flutes and return, plopping myself down on the floor.

  He joins me.

  “Can we just sit together? Be still together?”

  He nods.

  “I’m kind of scared of sitting in stillness. I always have been. It sounds like a fate worse than death. Like if I stop moving, stop worrying…” I shudder.

  “What will happen?”

  “Self-doubt. Panic? Self-recrimination.”

  “I’m familiar with all three. I call them the shame monster.”

  I look at him in surprise. “Really?”

  “Therapy.”

  That’ll do it.

  “How’s the stillness going now?”

  “We’re still talking,” I point out.

  He mimes zipping up his mouth. Then he pours the wine, and it’s good. We make it almost to the end of the bottle, just sitting there together, sipping the bubbly.

  “It’s a bit of a bittersweet end to the day,” I finally say.

  “Yeah.” He brushes his pinky finger against mine. “Is that what came out of the stillness for you?”

  “Yeah.” I make a face, then realize my eyes are wet. I swipe away the sad tears.

  “I’m sorry I’ve broken everything so badly.” The way his voice cracks, I know he’s sitting with an even bigger helping of self-recrimination than I ever could.

  I move my hand on top of his and squeeze his fingers. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

  “It really was incredible.”

  “Even Death of a Marriage?”

  He makes a wounded noise that turns into a coughing laugh. And he nods. “Yes.”

  “I have a confession,” I whisper, ignoring the fear wrapping its cold fingers around my heart.

  He turns his head, his handsome face bare and soft and fragile.

  For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, I don’t want to hurt him. “I’m sorry,” I breathe. “In advance.”

  “It’s okay.” He pokes his tongue at the corner of his mouth, being strong and brave in the way that only being truly vulnerable allowed one to be. “Whatever it is, I’ll understand.”

  Was I there yet? I take a deep breath. “I’ve been going to Alex’s kink club for the past year. It started as research.”

  Luke’s expression doesn’t change, but even in the dim lighting, I see his Adam’s apple bob up and down, and then I hear a tortured inhale. “Oh?”

  “It never crossed the kind of lines you crossed. It wasn’t like that. I didn’t want anyone else. But I started to explore my sexuality, and I never had any plans to tell you about it. Deep down I had resigned myself to the fact that at some point, we had fractured beyond repair. I didn’t owe you an explanation of what I was doing.”

  “You didn’t,” he said softly. “I said it was okay, and I meant it. Thank you for telling me.”

  I nod.

  But I’m not done.

  I’m so scared it hurts, in my shoulders an
d down my arms. I’m holding myself so rigidly it’s painful, but it’s painful inside my chest, too.

  Like I might break if I finish the confession.

  Like I might shatter if I don’t.

  “I think I owe you that explanation now.” My voice is soft, or small. Maybe both. I was still, and this burbled up. “Because I think our fractured thing is something I still value.”

  He exhales, roughly, and thumps his head back against the wall. “Thank Christ,” he mutters.

  And he hauls me into his lap.

  20

  Luke

  I hold her against me, my sweet wife, my beautiful wild bird, as she shakes and cries softly. She’s done a big, brave thing, after another big, brave thing, and I love her so much for all of it.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur against her hair. I will forever be that. And then, because sorry isn’t enough, and not what she needs, I dig deeper. “I’m curious, too. I want you to tell me more when you’re ready.”

  “Later,” she whispers.

  I kiss the side of her head and hold her.

  Later comes at the bottom of the bottle of champagne. We drink it while eating a charcuterie board I put in the fridge earlier.

  Once she’s eaten and is quite tipsy, she stretches out on the floor and pats the space next to her.

  I’m not getting past the foyer of the loft tonight, I realize that, so the floor is perfect. I lie down on my back, and after a few long beats of silence she starts talking.

  “It took me months to realize I wasn’t going there for research anymore. In hindsight, it was silly how long it took me, but denial is powerful.”

  My lips quirk at that. “So I’ve heard.”

  “It made my art so much richer, too.” I turn my head to the side so I can watch her in profile. The softness of her cheek, the firm point of her nose. The rise and fall of her whole body as she takes a breath and holds it.

  Waiting.

  Stillness.

  And then she smiles, which is the most beautiful thing in the world, and she starts talking again. “I was so mad,” she says softly, still smiling. That hurts, but it’s a dull hurt. Progress. “When I realized you’d played at kink with someone else. It took me a long time to realize that playing at kink and being kinky aren’t at all the same things.”