by Anthology
“No.” I duck my head and take a long sip of my own, less-gigantic margarita. The baby thing has been overwhelmed by the former wife thing.
“We’ll work it out,” I say vaguely. “It just takes time.”
I won’t tell Kelsey what Dean told me—it’s his story to tell, after all—but she’s savvy enough to read between the lines. She piles a chip with guacamole and crunches into it.
“Whatever the deal is, Liv, the man loves you to his bones,” she says. “Even I can see that, and I’m about as romantic as a tree branch.”
“Liv?”
Kelsey and I both look up to see Tyler Wilkes approaching our table.
“Tyler.” I smile. It’s the first time I’ve seen him without his chef’s jacket on. He’s wearing tan trousers and a well-fitted, button-down shirt the same shade of blue as his eyes. He looks good.
He stops beside our table and there’s a moment of awkwardness as we try to figure out how to greet each other. Finally he puts an arm around my shoulders and we exchange a brief hug. I catch a whiff of his aftershave before I pull away and introduce Kelsey.
“Tyler is my cooking instructor,” I say, then launch into a list of Tyler’s many accomplishments, which I’m surprised I even remember.
“Impressive.” Kelsey purses her lips around her straw for another dose of margarita. She glances from Tyler to me.
“I expect Liv is going to be the most improved student by the end of the year,” Tyler says. “She’s a hard worker and she has great potential. And she makes a mean soufflé.”
I flush and roll my eyes, even though the compliment secretly pleases me.
“So, what are you doing here?” I wave my hand at the restaurant, which is a nice place but certainly no fine-dining establishment.
“Just met a friend for dinner,” Tyler says. “The chile relleno here is the best for miles.”
I glance behind him, wondering if the “friend” is female. And then wondering why I care.
“Don’t you live in Forest Grove?” I ask.
“No, I’ve got a place over in Rainwood. About the same distance from here to Forest Grove.”
“Can you stay?” I gesture to the chair beside me. “We’re just getting ready to order.”
“No, I gotta get back to Julienne. I like to be there on weekends. Remember you’ve still got a standing invitation. Next time I won’t even put you to work.” He nods at Kelsey. “Nice meeting you.”
“Yeah. You too.”
“Bye, Liv. Good to see you.”
“You too, Tyler.”
I watch him go. I don’t really care that Kelsey is looking at me like she’s trying very, very hard not to interrogate me.
I haven’t done anything wrong. And Tyler’s compliments and admiration make me feel good. Frankly it’s nice to feel that way these days.
Our food arrives, and I ask Kelsey about her work as we eat. Ranting about her fellow professors is enough to keep her off the subject of Tyler, and by the time she drops me off at home she seems to have forgotten about him.
I don’t forget about him, though.
I lie in the big, empty bed and think about him and all his accomplishments and the easygoing way he has with people. I think about his vast knowledge of food, how he can debone a chicken within minutes, how he knows the exact temperature to cook a scallop, and how he can identify every cut of beef. He even knows how to make a perfect risotto.
I roll over and stare at the other side of the bed. Tyler is like Dean in some ways. Both of them possess an encyclopedic knowledge of their fields. Both are accomplished, dedicated, wholly passionate about their work. Both excel at what they do.
I press my hand against Dean’s cold pillow, then fumble for the phone on the nightstand. “Dean?”
“Hey, beauty. Did you get my voicemail?”
“Yes. I…” I curl my fingers into the pillow. “Just wanted to talk to you.”
“How was your day?”
“Fine. I had dinner with Kelsey. She says hi. She wants you to bring her back some peach preserves.”
“Do you want anything?”
“I want you to come home.”
“Four days only. I love you. I’ll call you tomorrow night.”
“I love you too.”
He’s already hung up, so I don’t know if he heard me. I drop the phone back onto the cradle and close my eyes.
If Dean had been sleeping beside me, I don’t know if I would have dreamed about Tyler Wilkes. I’ll never know. But I dream about him now—a dream that’s slow and easy and sweaty.
I dream about his body, compact and firm with a light mat of blond hair scattered over his chest. I dream about the way his mouth would feel against the bare skin of my shoulder, my throat, my breasts. I dream about his weight on top of me, how we’d fit together, how it would feel to wrap my legs around his hips. I imagine his skin smells like fresh herbs and citrus, that his hair feels thick and smooth like straw.
When I wake, I’m damp with perspiration, and my blood throbs a restless beat. I shift around, resisting the urge to press my fingers between my thighs, to rub the ache away.
I roll to my side, breathing hard, wincing as my sex pulses with the movement.
This is not what I expected. Not what I want.
I haven’t felt so shaken, so uncertain, in years. Since before I met Dean. I thought the whole reason I started considering the idea of having children was because I’ve put my past behind me, I love my husband, we’re settled in Mirror Lake, my life has become what I always wanted but never had before—secure, happy, safe…
So what the hell am I doing having an erotic dream about another man?
And what the fuck else has my husband not told me?
The anger I’ve been suppressing breaks loose like a swarm of bees.
I press my hands to my eyes. My heart is beating too fast. I force my mind back to our conversation, everything Dean said about his relationship with Helen. His first wife.
“I shouldn’t have relied on her to deal with birth control. But I did, and that’s what happened.”
All thoughts of Tyler Wilkes dissolve into the pool of dread spreading through my entire being.
I climb out of bed, pushing the covers aside. I yank open the drawer of Dean’s nightstand and look at the box of condoms inside. There’s another one in the bathroom. And a third in the drawer of a table beside the sofa. I’ve known for years where Dean keeps the condoms, but now it’s like I’m finding them for the first time.
Is that why Dean always used condoms with me, even when I tried birth control pills? Was it because of Helen’s betrayal? Did he think I’d do the same thing?
The thought makes me cold. Doubts flood me again—Dean’s reluctance to talk about a baby, Maggie Hamilton’s ugly insinuations, the secrets Dean and I both harbored so that we wouldn’t ruin the illusion of who we were supposed to be.
He was always the successful overachiever. I was always the good girl. God forbid anything should destroy the images we fought so hard to maintain.
I go into Dean’s office and sit at the swivel chair in front of his desk. I look at all his papers, flip through legal pads covered in his scrawled handwriting, page through books marked with Post-Its.
I turn on his computer. The desktop appears as a grid of PDF files, documents, images. I open a few of them. An article about the San Clemente church in Rome, another about “architectural polychromy.” A draft of Dean’s paper for an archeology journal. Pictures of medieval cathedrals, town plans, archeological sites.
I open a web browser and look at his browsing history of news and sports websites, email, conference information.
I click on Dean’s university email. The password is saved, so I log on. There are messages about classes and papers, the conference, airline and hotel confirmations. Halfway down the message list, I see the name that makes my breath stop.
Helen Morgan.
With a shaking hand, I click on the message to open it.
TO: Dr. Dean West, King’s University
FR: Dr. Helen Morgan, Stanford University
SU: Conference
Dean,
I wanted to let you know that I’m submitting a paper for inclusion in your Words and Images conference. The topic is about the Pre-Raphaelite use of medieval icons. I’ve been working with several medievalists recently, and the conference would be a way for me to expand my research into more interdisciplinary areas.
Since I do not want to miss a professional opportunity, I thought I would let you know (as a courtesy) of my intentions.
Sincerely,
Helen
There’s a reply from Dean.
Thanks for letting me know. Best of luck.
Dean
I stare at the message. My heart freezes.
My husband lied to me again.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
October 23
Over the next couple of days, I refuse to curl up and hide. Even though my chest is tight with dismay, I get through my hours at the bookstore and Historical Museum, then attend cooking class on Tuesday evening.
I can hardly look at Tyler. I think of my sex dream every time I catch sight of his blue eyes and blond hair. Every time he flashes me a smile, which I do not return.
When he reaches over my cutting board to point out my uneven dicing of a pepper, I stare at his hand and remember imagining how it would feel on my skin.
Class seems to last forever, and I quickly clean my station and pack up my things when it’s over.
“Everything okay, Liv?” Tyler stops in front of me, a crease of concern between his eyebrows.
“Fine.” I shove my notebook into my satchel. “Why?”
“You seem a little stressed out tonight, not really focused. I didn’t make things weird for you with your friend, did I?”
“What… oh, Kelsey. No. Not at all. I’m just… no. Everything is fine.”
I stare at his throat. I’d dreamed about flicking my tongue into the hollow just above his collarbone. Dreamed about him pressing his hand to the back of my neck, exactly the way Dean does.
Jesus. I’m a fucking mess.
Tears sting my eyes. I duck my head and grab my satchel. “See you next week.”
“Hey, Liv.”
I stop, but don’t turn to look at him. He grasps my wrist, turns my palm up, and presses a piece of paper into it. I glance down.
“My phone number,” he says, his voice low enough so the others don’t overhear. “Don’t mean to be presumptuous, but call if you want to talk or anything. You know, as friends.”
“Yeah. Sure. Thanks.”
I make it out to my car before the tears start falling, scraping my throat. I manage to compose myself and leave the parking lot before my fellow students or Tyler come out.
Out of sheer exhaustion and the need for escape, I sleep through the night—a bleak, dreamless sleep.
The next morning, I dress in warm clothes, then take a walk along one of the mountain trails. A touch of winter is in the air, the trees shedding their red-and-gold leaves, geese hovering around the lake. After a couple of hours, I return home to wait for Dean.
I finally hear his key in the lock at around three. He comes in all rumpled and travel-weary, wraps his arms around me for a tight hug, then goes off to shower and change.
“Kelsey’s preserves.” He puts a few jars of peach preserves on the counter. “And some for you. Great on toast.”
“How was the conference?”
“Good. I’m starting up a project with three European students on medieval guildhalls and public architecture.” He goes into the kitchen and grabs an orange, telling me all the details of the project and the archeology it will involve.
I know the routine. And I know enough not to confront him right when he gets home. So I wait a few hours while he unpacks and winds down, checks his email, organizes his notes and books.
It’s almost dinner before he realizes I’ve barely said a word since he came home. I place an order for Chinese take-out. Dean stretches out on the sofa.
“You have your cooking class last night?” He reaches for the remote control and glances at me. “How was it?”
“Fine.”
“What did you make?”
Chicken? Fish? “Veal. Veal scaloppini.”
“How did it turn out?”
“Okay. A little dry. But good, I guess.”
He continues looking at me. “So what’s wrong?”
I take a deep breath. “You told me you hadn’t spoken to her in years.”
“Who…”
“Helen.”
“I haven’t.”
“Then why did I find a message from her in your email?”
He frowns. “What were you doing checking my email?”
“Trying to find out what else you might be keeping from me,” I snap, refusing to feel guilty for having spied on him. “I specifically asked you when you’d last talked to Helen and you said years, then I found an email from her about your conference. When were you planning on telling me about that?”
“Liv, there’s nothing to tell.”
“She said she’s planning to attend your conference next year, Dean, which means she’ll be in Mirror Lake. You didn’t think that was worth telling me? And why did you lie about having contact with her?”
“I didn’t lie. You asked me when I last talked to her, and it’s true that it’s been years since I have.”
“Don’t be an ass.” My fists clench, old insecurities and anger boiling into my chest. “You knew exactly what I meant.”
“Liv, it’s just an academic conference.” Irritation hardens his features. “You read the email, obviously… all Helen said was that she was submitting a proposal.”
“Did it even occur to you to tell me?”
“Why would you care who’s attending a Medieval Studies conference?”
My heart shrivels a little at the implication that I have no interest in his work. And at the knowledge that I have done nothing to actually express interest.
“I care if it’s your ex-wife, Dean.”
He sighs. “Look, I didn’t think it was a big deal, okay? Do I want to see Helen again? No. Do I give a damn if she presents a paper at the conference? No. She’s a scholar. She has a right to her career. She’ll attend the conference and leave, just like everyone else.”
He turns away to toss the remote onto the coffee table, his jaw set, as if that’s the end of the conversation. I walk to the table beside the sofa and open the drawer. My hand trembles as I take out the condom package and hold it up.
“What about these?” I ask.
“Condoms?”
“Helen was the reason you’ve been using condoms all this time,” I say.
Dean shakes his head. “Now what are you talking about?”
“She lied to you about birth control. That was how she got pregnant. And you told me you shouldn’t have trusted her.” I throw the box at him. It hits him square in the chest. “Did you not trust me either?”
“Liv, what—”
“You were the one who told me to stop taking the pill, told me you’d just use condoms.”
“I told you to stop taking the pill because it made you sick. Not because I didn’t trust you to take it.”
“What about the patch? Shots? You didn’t want me to use those either.”
“Because they’re also hormonal—”
“No, because you didn’t want me to be the one in control of it. Because of her.”
“Liv, for Christ’s sake, I’d never think that of you.”
“Then why? What man likes using a condom, Dean? For three years? There are a zillion other options out there, and you didn’t want me to use any of them!”
It occurs to me that it took me this long to even question his decision. I don’t know if that’s a measure
of my own stupidity or of the simple fact that I’ve just never had reason to question him about anything.
He doesn’t look guilty or ashamed. More than anything, he just looks baffled.
“Liv, the condoms have nothing to do with Helen.”
“Don’t they?” My tears spill over. “You don’t want a baby with me because of what happened with Helen, right? Why else would you have wanted to wear condoms for so long?”
“Because you told me years ago that you didn’t want children!” Frustration edges his voice. He stands and approaches me. “I’m not… Liv, yes, Helen tricked me into a pregnancy that I didn’t want. But never once have I thought you’d do the same thing. Why would I have when you said you’d never wanted children anyway? Not to mention that I’ve always trusted you a hell of a lot more than I ever trusted her.”
“But not enough to tell me you were married before.”
“Liv—”
I hold up both hands. “I don’t want this anymore, Dean.”
“What?”
“This.” I gesture to the air between us and wipe my wet face and runny nose with my sleeve. “This crap that’s going on. I hate it. We had it good, didn’t we? Then I mention a baby and suddenly everything goes to hell. What the fuck happened? Don’t married people talk about babies and families? Why does everyone else manage to do it without all… this?”
“I don’t know.”
The fact that he just admitted that is enough to make my throat close. Professor West knows everything. Doesn’t he?
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier about Helen?” I ask.
“Because it was shitty. I didn’t want you to know about it.”
“You didn’t think I could handle it.”
“No. I wanted to protect you.”
“So you lied.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“By omission, yes, you did.”
For God’s sake. Our marriage is not supposed to have lies. My stomach roils with a surge of nausea.