Page 12 of The Replay

I run my fingers over my wet, prickly scalp in frustration at myself, but don't say anything else.

"Whether I regret it or not," she finally says, "it doesn't change what happened."

I make peace with the fact I'll never know the answer, because I never meant to ask.

"I guess you still got married," I say.

She chews her lip. "I still helped my family like I said I would."

"Is that the story you tell yourself, then? That you did it out of integrity?"

"Thatismy story."

She never lied. She warned me. She fought for us as long as she thought she could, then I let her go.

It's ironic, really. Kind of twisted. I loved her furious loyalty. The kind where she'd never walk away from the people she chose to call her own. I experiencedit for ten months, but her faithfulness to her family was more powerful in the end.

I echo her. "Close enough, I suppose."

For the first time, her eyes soften on me. She doesn't look away, but they close. She takes a deep breath.

Maybe, just maybe, she regrets some things, too.

She shakes her head. "Regardless. I needed to talk to you about this because we work together now. From the meetings I've been having, we won't be able to avoid each other."

"How is that a problem? It doesn't have to be a big deal. As soon as I heard you were going to take over the foundation department I expected to see you around. Didn't you?"

"Of course I did."

"Does it bother you?"

I manage to ask the question like a challenge, when it sounds different in my mind.

Tell me I still make you feel things. Even if it’s irritation. At least it means you feel something.

Annoyance comes back to her face. We never used to talk like this. I'm glad she doesn't break under the change, and meets me with simple displeasure. In fact, I welcome it.

She presses her lips. "What bothers me is that if I'm going to work closely with you and your friends, I don't want them mincing their words or keeping their distance because of something you may have told them about me. I want them to treat me the same way they would treat anyone in the front office. If I'm going to work and live here for a season, I want to make my way without our— my— history getting in the way."

"If they're holding their tongue it's not because of anything I've said, because I haven't said a thing."

"Good. I don't want them prejudiced against me."

"Give me more credit than that."

"I would have, if you hadn't called me a year after we broke up."

I tense my arms. They become a shield, protecting my chest from her call out.

"You used to know me better than anyone." I shake my head. "You should know why I called. Yeah, I did the wrong thing— once. Don't I at least get that? Why are you letting it redefine everything?"

"I had to let it redefine everything, or I wouldn't have known what to do with the hurt of what you were asking of me."

My nostrils flare. Seems she has a very low opinion of me these days. If Mariana let a phone call change everything she thought of me and the time we had together, I'm not going to argue. Who knows, maybe her parents put some extra pressure on her to view me a certain way, too.

"Well, then," I say. "You've made up your mind."

She nods. "So, back to your friends. Would they have looked me up? There are small press articles in the UK. They would have found a couple of things about the divorce or even the fact Henry's asking for alimony—"