Page 76 of The Husband I Left

Tell her I’m sorry

I wasn’t lying about liking her pot roast

I thought about my mother’s words when my coworker Seth asked if I wanted to grab lunch with him sometime, and I turned him down. And I was super annoyed because Seth is actually really cute and he’s the type of guy I should want to grab lunch with and for whatever reason I just…don’t.

By Friday, I’m tired of thinking about it all. Meeting friends for drinks after work seemed like a solution. Or at least a distraction. Two drinks turned into several, however, and now I’m walking back to my building at just after midnight feeling warm and floaty and a little too much like the version of myself who might do something inadvisable.

The building lobby is blessedly empty, and I make it up the stairs without incident, which feels like an achievement. The hallway is dim; the overhead lights flickering and buzzing like they’re considering giving up. I’m digging through my purse for my keys when my foot catches on something just outside my door.

I look down.

A takeout container sits on the floor. I crouch down to pick it up, and as usual, there is a folded note taped to the bottom. I pull it off and unfold it.

Missed you tonight.

Three words and they completely wreck me. Holding the note and the container, I consider my next move.

I should just go inside and put the food in the fridge and go to bed. I know this. I can hear the sensible voice in my head saying Just go to bed, Genevieve.

I tell that voice to mind its own business.

Missed you tonight.

How dare he? How dare that man who spent the last months of our marriage avoiding me, shutting himself in his home office, letting me think he was having an affair for God’s sake, how dare he leave me a note telling me he missed me?

I drop the container on the floor, ignoring the mess it makes at my feet and turning, I march over to Oliver’s door. I knock.

Nothing happens. If I were thinking clearly, I would realize it’s after midnight and Oliver’s probably asleep. I would just turn around and go back to my own apartment, and then tomorrow I could pretend this never happened.

I don’t do that. Instead, I start pounding on the door. And as if I’m not already embarrassing myself enough, I yell out, “Oliver! Oliver, open this door!”

For a moment, nothing happens, and just as I’m about to start pounding again, the door opens and I’m face to face with a very surprised looking Oliver.

He’s wearing a faded t-shirt and boxers, and his hair is rumpled from sleep, and he looks so wonderful that for a moment, I forget why I came over and just sway slightly and stare at him.

“Genny,” he says cautiously. “Everything okay? Did you need something?”

His words kick start my brain and I remember why I’m here. “No,” I inform him. “I don’t need anything from you, Oliver. I’m just here because I don’t understand.”

He blinks. “Okay.”

“No.” My voice comes out louder than I meant it to. “I mean, I don’t understand,” and my voice comes out with a wobble in it that I absolutely did not authorize, and to my absolute horror my eyes start to sting. I blink hard. Oliver, for his part, is starting to look worried.

“Hey,” he says carefully. “Are you alright? Let me walk you back to your—”

“No.” That comes out louder still, loud enough that I wince at myself. I hold up a hand. “No. I want to have this out. Right now.”

“Have what out?”

“This.” I jab my finger into the center of his chest. He takes a step back, which carries him just inside his own apartment, and I follow him, which I suppose means I’m now standing in his living room at midnight, tipsy and dangerously close to crying.

“Genny—“

The words are coming out now faster than I can organize them. “You married me for revenge against your father, Oliver, and then you let me think you were having an affair with your high school sweetheart slash assistant slash whatever the hell Victoria was. I thought you were going to leave me for her. And then you tell me it was all just a big fucking joke because she pissed you off when she dumped you. And now you’re here, leaving me food and telling me you missed me, and I need you to tell me why. Why are you doing this?”

I stop. Look at him. He’s standing still, watching me with an expression I can’t quite name. “Because it can’t be because you loved me,” I say, and my voice breaks on the last word. “Because if you loved me, you would never have treated me the way you did.”

For a moment, there’s only silence. Oliver looks at me and then he asks, “Do you want the truth?”