Chapter Twenty Two
The sound of Oliver's overnight bag hitting the floor echoes loudly around the room.
I can't breathe. Christ, he looks angry. Of course, he does. Why wouldn't he? I'm dressed in nothing but another man's clothes who also happens to be standing topless next to me. Aidan's scent is still in my nose and in my hair and coating my body and suddenly and finally upon all of these things coming together the guilt comes. A tsunami of it. Drowning me.
"Oliver, I..."
"Answer him," Oliver says.
"What?" My voice sounds frightened and weak. I feel weak.
He jerks his head toward Aidan but doesn't look at him. "His question. Answer it."
Instantly, my mind dries up along with my mouth. It feels like old newspaper, yellowed and useless, containing things which used to be true but were now out of date and no longer relevant. All of my thoughts prior to the moment I'd heard Oliver's voice had seemed loud and finally clear, but now that a light was shining on them they'd scuttled away behind things and were afraid to come out.
Answer his question. Do you love him? Oh, Oliver, it's the wrong bloody question. Oliver always asks the wrong bloody questions. Which of these overpriced French restaurants do you prefer? I don't like French food, Oliver. Which of these patterned ties do you prefer? I like plain ties, Oliver. Will you marry me?
It's Aidan's question though, isn't it? It was Aidan who'd asked the wrong question. I'd been about to tell him it was the wrong question when I'd heard Oliver's voice.
Since this thing had begun, Aidan had always acted and spoken as though it had in some way been about Oliver. But it had never been about Oliver. It had always been about Aidan. Aidan and I. Why hadn't he realised that yet? Now it was too late.
I let out a deep breath before speaking.
"Yes. Of course, I love you," I say finally.
As I speak the words aloud to my husband I see Aidan twist his head to look at me. I can feel the chill from his eyes, but at the same time, the heat from his body still bounces off the bare skin of my arms and legs. Why hadn't either of them asked me the right question?
Why is it that men never saw what was right in front of them? Some women say men are hard to dissect. Not me. I've always found them simplistic unbarred creatures. All except one.
I turn my head to Aidan and feel my legs wobble slightly. His eyes echo the look they had in the film image of him as a young boy. There's accusation and betrayal in his stare, but mainly he looks lost and confused. I want to go to him and hold him but how can I? How, in front of my husband who I'd betrayed and lied to, could I comfort the only man who's arms I'd ever felt at home in?
Oh, Aidan, why couldn't you have just asked the right question? Things would have been easier if you had. When I glance back at Oliver he is now looking at Aidan. The look on his face is dark and violent.
"Well you've got a remarkably funny way of showing it,," Oliver says, dragging his eyes back to me.
"Oh, like you can fucking talk," Aidan snaps, his head whipping round to stare Oliver down.
Oliver narrows his eyes. "Excuse me?"
Beside me I feel Aidan tense, cursing under his breath before pulling his shoulders back to stand a little taller. "You fucking heard me."
"I heard you, Foley. I'm just wondering what the fuck you're talking about."
"I think you know exactly what I'm talking about, Alford," he says quietly.
Apparently, he doesn't. Oliver looks perplexed. Furious and perplexed. As he looks at me for a clue a weird unsettled feeling starts in my stomach, joining the ball of guilt and tension already festering there.
When I look at Aidan I can see he's toying with the idea of explaining himself; his jaw clenching as he nibbles the inside of his lip.
"Listen, if you have something you'd like to say to me or my wife then fucking say it," Oliver tells him.
Aidan steps toward him. "Oh, I have plenty of things I'd like to say to you, you arrogant fucking prick, but let's start with Nicole fucking Weston shall we? Or, should I say fucking Nicole Weston?"
I feel my face contort into confusion as I glance between him and my husband. Oliver still looks confused.
"Aidan, what are you talking about?" I ask quietly.
"Ask your fucking husband," he snaps without looking at me. His tone is sharp and hot. "I'm betting he wasn't on a fucking business trip at all. He was probably inside the woman who sat across from you at dinner the other night and told you how beautifully innocent and sweet you were. That right, Alford?"
Oliver's expression goes from shocked to amused, to simmering indignant rage.
"Are you fucking serious?" When it's clear Aidan is, in fact, serious Oliver's mouth curls up into a smirk and I feel a wave of animosity come from him, so hot my cheeks feel warm from it. "This is how you got her to fall into bed with you? A pack of fucking lies? How fucking desperate are you?" Oliver turns his glare on me. "You actually believed this? He told you this and you believed him?"
I'm stunned. "I... no... this is the first time I've heard any of this. Aidan, what are you doing? Why would you say this?"
Aidan sighs and runs a hand over his face and turns to face me. "Eloise, he's fucking her. Someone told me."
"Someone? What are you? A twelve-year-old girl?" Oliver sneers. "Someone's a fucking liar."
My face feels very hot now. I feel rage. Unexpected rage, at Aidan. Why would he say this? Here, now? Is he lying? To hurt me? Why? Why would I feel hurt about Oliver fucking Nicole anyway when I've spent the last four days fucking Aidan? I round on him fully.
"Why are you saying this?"
He frowns at me. "Because it's true. Because you deserve to know."
"If I deserve to know then why didn't you tell me?"
He skirts his eyes from mine, guilty, lost. When he talks his voice is small, quiet. "I didn't want to hurt you."
"You lying underhanded bastard," Oliver says, lunging forward.
I move out of the way as he raises his arm, Aidan turning to face him at the very same moment. The sound of a fist hitting his face is loud and fleshy, like a ripe fruit being dropped on a hard surface. I can only watch in horror as Aidan throws his own retaliatory punch upwards into the side of Oliver's face, catching him somewhere on the lower jaw. This can't be happening. It is happening. They're fighting. Two grown men fighting. In the kitchen of a beautiful rented lake house in upstate New York.
As I stand there numb with shock I assess the situation, and how badly this could end for each of them. Or rather, who's going to be worse off when it ends. Aidan, half-naked and a few inches shorter, looks the slightly more powerful of the two, but Oliver is taller and angrier. He's also fully dressed and looks to be constrained slightly by the fact, his lightweight jacket something for Aidan to grip onto and use as a weakness.
"Stop it," I say as I finally find my voice. It doesn't sound like my voice. It's just a disembodied noise which has no effect whatsoever on the scene in front of me. "Stop it. Jesus Christ, Stop it!!" I move forward and grip hold of Aidan's arm, pulling him forcibly off my husband who he has pinned against the island in the middle of Ted's kitchen.
He's breathing hard and looks furious as he turns to me. His cheek is red and angry and there's blood running down from inside his nose. Oliver's top lip is split open and the neck of his t-shirt torn. They both look ridiculous as they glare between each other and me. I think they also look partially embarrassed as they try hard to hold onto their displaced anger. I'm the one they should be angry at, not each other.
I give them both a pointed look before moving to the stove to turn off the burning pancakes. Then I take a few deep breaths before turning back to face them.
"Do you both feel better now?" I ask. Aidan blinks at me a few times and touches his fingers to his nose, flinching slightly. Oliver throws a scowl at Aidan and begins righting his clothes, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and swearing under his breath. "I think we need to talk," I say to my husband before turning to Aidan. "I think you should go. There's a train back to the city from Westport at 1 pm. You can call a taxi to take you there."
His face contorts into confusion. "Are you fucking serious?"
I nod. "Yes, I need you to go."
He shakes his head slowly and a look of warning comes across his face. "Eloise, please don't do this." He steps toward me.
"Don't tell her what to do. She's my fucking wife," Oliver barks.
"Aidan, please. Please just go," I plead, softer. He stops still and stares at me for the longest time. I feel my insides churn and swirl. I feel sick. Physically ill.
Why doesn't he understand that he needs to leave now? That our bubble has well and truly burst? That whatever romantic notion we both may have had separately about what this was and how it would end has now been obliterated. Replaced by cold hard truth. I'm nothing more than a cheating wife who has been caught. I'd betrayed my husband. And whether or not he was fucking Nicole was irrelevant, Aidan must know that. He stares at me while Oliver stares at him, until finally he nods, pulls his shoulders back, turns, and walks out of the kitchen.
A weird flurry of panic washes over me at the sight of him walking away from me, my stomach continuing to furl and unfurl, gnawing at my insides like a living breathing thing. I really do feel sick. I'm going to throw up. As Aidan's footsteps grow quiet above us I bring my hand up to my mouth and turn and empty some of last night's dinner into the sink.
I run the tap to wash away the sight and rinse my mouth out. Suddenly I feel him behind me, gathering my hair back and running a hand tenderly across my back. I consider pushing him away but something stops me. Some part of me in this moment needs my husband's hands on me, comforting me. Why he wants to comfort me is another question entirely.
I don't deserve it.
I turn off the tap and grab the dish towel to dry my mouth before turning to face Oliver. His expression is a myriad of emotion and I can't decide which one is strongest. He looks hurt and confused, concerned and frightened.
"Are you ok?" He asks me.
"Yes, fine," I lie. "Are you?" I glance at his mouth.
He nods, licking his burst lip with his tongue. "The airline lost my case. I need to go out and get a few things," he explains, still breathing hard. "When I get back, we'll talk. Once he's gone we can talk, ok?" His tone is odd. It's too soft. Why isn't he angrier? He should be angrier.
I nod and he moves toward me into my body space, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me tight to him. The scent of him is strangely unfamiliar. Too strong, too artificial. He kisses the top of my head as hugs me to his chest.
"We'll be okay. I understand why this happened and we'll be okay, I promise you. It'll be okay." I'm too stunned to respond.
He understands?
How the hell can he understand? I don't fully understand. All I understand is that I wanted Aidan. I wanted him like I'd wanted nothing my entire life, and because I'm selfish and self-centred like I've been my entire life, I took him. Oliver understands this? Of course, he doesn't. Because he's never understood me. Because he's never known me. Not really. He told me he wanted to spend his life trying to get to know me. The problem was, I doubt very much Oliver would like me very much once he got to know me.
He certainly wouldn't have wanted to marry me.
He moves away from me and grabs the dishtowel I used on my mouth to wipe his own. Then he walks to the fridge and opens one side of it, grabbing a handful of ice that he balls into the towel before walking out of the house. It occurs to me that maybe he's excused himself out of politeness because he doesn't want to witness the awkward goodbye between Aidan and I. Oliver has impeccable manners. It was one of the few positive things my mum had ever said about my husband.
I'm not sure how long I stand there staring at Aidan's pancake batter before I hear him coming down the stairs. His footsteps are heavy and loud and my heart speeds up a little more with each step. I turn around slowly, lifting my eyes to him. He's dressed in the clothes he wore when we arrived; dark jeans, light blue t-shirt, his jacket in his hand. He has his sunglasses on, and like always when he wears them I feel deprived of his eyes. For a moment I think he's going to leave without saying another word but he doesn't. He comes toward me carrying his bags and stops.
"Did you ask him to leave as well?" He asks, placing the bags down by his feet.
"He lost his case. He went out to get some things," I tell him quietly. Aidan nods and looks around the room before bringing his eyes back to me.
"I never had a fucking chance, did I? You never had any intention of leaving him. Not really. It was never even on the table." His voice is filled with absolute conviction.
"Aidan..." I shake my head.
"It was about filling some fucking hole," he smirks, cruelly. "Some void in your unsatisfying life and your predictably troubled marriage. I was just a bit of fucking excitement for you in the end." The scorn in his voice is unbearable.
I plead with him with my eyes. "No, that wasn't it. You weren't that. You were more than that, Aidan."
So much more. He'll never know how close it came to being us. How close I came to walking away from my life and never looking back. How close he came to making me happy. What use would it do to tell him that now? I can't bear the idea of him thinking he meant nothing to me and hating me for it, but perhaps his ire and hatred is exactly what I deserve.
Why can't he understand that it was always going to have to end like this? I'm Oliver's wife. I had been Aidan's lover.
He reaches up and removes his glasses. "So then what the fuck was I?"
I feel the tears come again, choking me, stealing the breath from me. I feel my mouth twist up into some echo of a smile as I meet his grey-blue stare. His eyes look drained of their usual colour. Normally bright and otherworldly, right now they're a poor imitation of how they normally look.
What if Aidan had asked me the other question? The right question. Would this be happening differently? I didn't deserve him. I didn't deserve either of them. Until this moment I'd never felt such pure and utter self-hatred. Not even after the funeral. Not even as I'd held Oliver's head on my lap as we'd cried for our son.
Aidan had been the only thing that had given my life any purpose or meaning since that happened. How did I explain that's what he was without telling him the rest? He'd made me feel something other than guilt and self-pity and self-hatred for a while. I can't tell him that. He might think even less of me for it. As though I'd used him in some way. Maybe I had. I'd used him to claim back some happiness and self-worth because I was selfish and self-centred. I'd let him distract me from everything else that was drowning me. And he'd succeeded. For a little while.
Oh, you're a distraction alright.
"You were what I needed," I manage before the tears begin to roll down my face. I still need him. I can't have him. I'm married. I said yes.
"He can't make you happy Eloise," he says. Like he knows me. How can he know me? "You're not happy. With him. I don't know if I can make you happy either but I know he doesn't."
"I haven't been happy for a long time, Aidan. It isn't Oliver's fault."
"Nothing's his fucking fault is it?" He flares. "He seriously can do no fucking wrong, can he?"
"That's not it," I shake my head.
"Then what is it? Why are you so fucking unhappy then? Why were you so miserably sad in the gallery that night? Why were you crying that day in the park when you thought I wasn't looking? Why, Eloise?"
My heart stumbles slightly, tripping over his words. He sees everything. He sees me as I am. Maybe he does know me. No man has ever seen me how Aidan sees me. I doubt any man ever will.
"That painting sitting in your studio is exactly who I am, Aidan. Cold and empty."
"Bullshit. I've seen you." He steps closer. "I know you. I know every inch of your body, and if you'd just fucking let me I'd learn every inch of your soul. I'd drown myself in it, in you, and I'd never come up for air. Don't do this, Eloise, please." I close my eyes as he comes closer and then I feel him. I feel his arms slide around my body and his breath against my face as he brings his mouth to my ear. Know my soul? Oh, I don't want him in there. Delving around looking for things that it didn't possess. "You know how good this is. How good we are. I know you do. You felt it." He pushes me back against the counter and his hand slides between my legs. He strokes blatantly at my bareness, his fingers urgent and tempting, his grip possessive and desperate. I moan softly at his touch. Traitorous filthy need. "Come with me," he begs. "We can both go home together. Leave him, be with me. Choose me, Eloise."
I squeeze my eyes shut tight trying to drown out his words. But god his touch is loud. "Aidan, please."
I try and push at him but I'm weak. Of course, I am. I've always been weak when it comes to Aidan. He kisses the side of my neck, rough lips and rough beard against my needy skin. I can't feel anything except his touch and it occurs to me that I should memorise it because it will be the last time I get to feel it.
"Aidan, please don't. We can't. I can't. Not now."
"Come with me. I'll spend my life trying to make you happy. I need you." His voice is raw and desperate and the tears streak my face as I stop fighting him.
In my mind, I try and picture us together. I picture him trying to make me happy. Aidan who'd spent his life trying to forget his misery and make himself happy would try and do the same for me. Even though I don't deserve it. It wasn't fair. It wouldn't be fair to Oliver. I owed it to him to try and fix this. Fix the mess I'd made. I have to stop being so selfish. I made a vow. I said yes.
"I can't, Aidan." I push at him again but feel weaker and more exhausted by the second. His fingers stroke me as his mouth kisses me, his voice whispering promises between kisses that make me weaker still. "Aidan, stop, please, I can't." I sob harder and I feel pathetic for it.
When he comes round in front of me and pushes his body into me I feel completely powerless. If he picked me up and carried me out of this house with him I'd let him. I feel boneless. Spineless.
He grips my face and pushes his mouth onto mine, his tongue seeking mine in deep desperate kisses that melt me against him, that pull me inside him, licking, scraping, tasting. He consumes my as his fingers milk my body, heating me, wetting me.
"Don't do this, please," he groans. "I need you. I can't lose you, not again." His words are quiet and mumbled and I don't understand them all but when I hear the sound of him unbuckling his belt my mind comes alive again. Oh, dear god. No.
"Aidan, stop. Stop it. No." I push him as hard as I can and he steps back from me the look on his face betrayal, as though I've hurt him. But he's breathing hard and is undeniably aroused. I feel guiltier still for wanting him. Right here and now.
I wipe at my eyes and nose and fold my arms across my chest. "Please just go now. He'll be back soon and you can't be here, Aidan, please. I need you to go."
He looks at me with such betrayal then I feel suffocated from it. "That's what you need?" He asks, cold. "For me to leave you alone?"
I bite back another wave of pathetic tears. "I need to talk to my husband, Aidan. Something I should have done long ago. For that, I need you to go. Please."
He says nothing for such a long time. Hours of us staring at each other. Hours of thick silence punched through with pain. Finally, he nods, running his hand over his mouth and beard as he looks around the room.
When he looks back at me he looks stronger. "Then I'll do what you need me to do, Eloise. I'll go. I'll leave you alone."
He lets out a breath before walking back over to lift his bags. He slides on his sunglasses and glances back at me, obviously waiting for me to say something more. I don't even know where to start. If I started I'd never stop.
"I'm so sorry." Is what I say. A fresh set of tears squeeze out of my eyes as the words leave my mouth. He's leaving. I can't breathe. I feel like I'm suffocating. Choking on tears and guilt and heartache.
"Me too. Me fucking too," he says simply. He hooks his bags over his shoulders, turns from me and then he's gone.
The second I hear the door close I collapse onto the floor and cry my eyes out for ten solid minutes. When I'm empty (or emptier) I stand and go upstairs to shower, dress and wait for my husband.
I lose track of how long I sit there. Picking at the skin around my fingers until it stings and throbs. It's comforting. Though the pain on the outside doesn't come close to what's inside. I feel like something heavy and black is lying at the pit of my stomach and if I tried to stand it would be a struggle. It started the second Aidan left this house and seems to have been slowly gaining mass.
I feel like I'm being pulled in a thousand different directions; back to London, back to New York, some yurt in Outer Mongolia where I'd never need to think about any of this again. There's a clock ticking somewhere in this massive wooden room but I don't know where. He's been gone too long. Hours definitely. Perhaps he decided he didn't understand after all and that he was done with me. What would I do then? I know exactly what I'd do then. I'd go to Aidan, fall on my knees and beg him to forgive me.
At the sound of the front door opening, I almost jump out of my skin. I pull myself forward on the chair, right to the edge, and straighten my spine as he comes into the room. He's carrying two paper grocery bags and two other bags with designer brand names on them. He casts a glance over at me as he crosses to the kitchen, dumping the bags on the worktop.
I'd cleared the half-cooked pancakes away after I'd showered. I'd also tidied this room and stripped the bedsheets upstairs — of course, I knew clearing the evidence was pointless but I felt like I should do it out of respect and decency. I'd cried the entire time. Pathetic, self-inflicted, self-pitying tears that had drained me completely. I wasn't even sure what I was crying about. Everything.
Oliver pulls a bottle of something out of one of the bags, Jack Daniels probably, and opens a few cupboards until he finds a small crystal tumbler which he fills halfway. He takes three large gulps and then refills it. His shoulders are hunched tightly together as he leans over the counter and stares into his glass. I can hear him breathing from here. Long deep breaths that make me feel tenser on each inhale. I count four repetitions before he lifts his glass and the bottle, and turns around and walks towards me. His sparkling blue eyes catch mine and he holds them as he crosses the room and sits down across on the couch opposite where I'm sitting. The couch Aidan fucked me on two days ago.
He sits back, spreading his legs, and brings his glass to his mouth. His eyes never leave mine but his expression is unreadable. He seems in a different mood to the one he left in.
"He gone then?" He asks as he swallows.
I nod as I pull at the untidy nip of skin around my thumb. "He's gone."
He nods slowly, mouth in a hard line. Then he scrubs a hand over his face and sighs loudly. "I came to surprise you. Thought it would be nice for us to spend some time away together. I know how much you hate the city." he says.
"I don't hate it," I tell him. I don't. I hate myself.
He looks skeptical. "Things were pretty much wrapped up after the first meeting. Was some false threat about one of the big clients shifting assets after they lost some money. They wanted someone from New York over to show we were seriously sorry," he tells me.
"I understand."
A cut of sadness moves into his eyes. "I missed you. I was worried about you. I always worry about you. Ever since that day."
I glance down, unsure whether to speak or remain utterly silent. "You don't have to worry about me, Oliver."
"You're my wife, Eloise. My wife who not three months ago almost died from a fucking overdose. How do I not worry about you?"
"It was an accid—."
"An accident, I know," he cuts in. His eyes bore into mine. "Was fucking Aidan Foley an accident too?"
I take only a moment to consider it. Then I shake my head. "No."
His eyes flicker with something. "How long?"
"Not long."
He nods, but his expression doesn't change. "Why?"
"Why, what?"
"An affair? Him? I mean how is it that you let him inside you when I have to beg for the tiniest scrap of intimacy from you, El?" He asks. As his words hang in the air between us I try and think of an answer for him, an explanation for him but I have none. "I thought it was the baby, you know. I just thought you were in pain and grieving and heartbroken. How could I complain about our sex life when you'd just carried and lost our child? When our child had died inside you?" He asks.
Again I have nothing. I let the silence hang and he lifts his glass to his mouth and downs the rest of his drink.
"I wanted to give you space. Time to heal. The day I found you on that bathroom floor I saw my entire fucking life flash before my eyes. People say that and it always sounds like a cliché, but it's what I saw. I saw myself alone. My wife and child dead. I don't know what would have happened to me if I'd lost you that day. I blamed myself." He scrubs a hand furiously over his face. "If anything had happened to you it would have killed me. I know I shouldn't have brought you here so soon after. I blame myself for that. I knew you were struggling, but I honestly thought it might help, the change of scenery, to get away from the house, the nursery." He nods and his voice is raw and bare. I can't bear it. I can't bear him blaming himself for this. For any of it.
"I never wanted him, Oliver," I say as I pull at the slice of skin around the finger, peeling it back from the rest of my body. "The baby. I never wanted him." The words are out really before I have a chance to second guess them again. I should have told him long ago. I should have tried to expel the guilt long ago. Selfish or not. He deserved to know who I was.
"What are you talking about?"
I'm afraid to look up and see the look of horror on his face but I know I have to. I take a deep breath and lift my head up. He looks confused not horrified. "I never wanted a child. Not for one moment during the pregnancy. Before I told you I was pregnant I considered having an abortion, and I made an appointment with the clinic —Gabby was going to come with me —but I cancelled it. I was afraid, and I knew I could never do that to you. I'd never have been able to live with myself if I aborted our child without your knowing about it. But I didn't want to be a mother. I didn't want a baby. I wasn't ready for it." The words keep coming, unstoppable. I don't want to stop them. "The moment they told me he was gone was the first moment I felt any love for him. It was the first moment I felt he was something other than this strange thing taking up space inside my body. I didn't understand what could be wrong with me for feeling that. For only loving our child when he was dead. I still don't understand what's wrong with me. But I did grieve for our child, Oliver. I did love him. I do love him. I just didn't realise it until it was too late, and I blame myself for what happened. I blame myself for everything." I take a deep breath and wipe my face with the sleeve of my cardigan. When will they stop?
He says nothing for a long time. He just looks at me as though he doesn't recognise me or understand the words I've just said. Finally, he sits forward on his knees and lets out a long tired breath. Turning his head to stare hard at a point in front of him for what again feels like hours.
"When did you start hating me, El?" He asks turning his head back to me. "After you got pregnant? Before? After he died? Or have you always despised me? Deep down. Did you hate me the instant told you I loved you?" He laughs a small bitter laugh.
"What? No." I edge forward again on my chair. "I don't hate you. Oliver, I've never hated you, please don't say that." I shake my head.
"Well, you don't fucking like me, do you? And despite what you said earlier in front of him I seriously doubt you love me either. I doubt you ever have." He widens his eyes. "What the fuck are we doing here? What is this, Eloise?"
I open my mouth to speak. Then close it again. Yet again I have nothing. What are we doing? Being in a marriage? Is this what marriage was? Lies and deceit and guilt and pain? I caused this. I shouldn't have said yes. Something occurs to me then, something that I hadn't thought about for hours in fact. Which in itself is strange.
"Are you sleeping with Nicole?" I ask him.
His eyes widen as he studies my face.
"You believe him?"
"No," I shake my head. "I don't know. Are you?"
"No I'm not," he states and I nod. He sounds sincere. I still don't know why Aidan would have said it. Is he really that underhanded to make something like that up? I don't think he is. Just thinking about Aidan for a moment makes my chest ache. Someone told him he'd said. Someone. Who would tell him that?
Sasha.
The thought is loud and clear. Sasha told him something. Why would she make it up? Nothing bloody makes sense. I'm so tired.
I watch as Oliver reaches down to refill his glass. "We'd been spending some time together though. She was helping me look for a house."
I'm wide-awake again. "A house?"
As he lifts his glass to his mouth and gulps, my mouth waters fiercely. I'd never gone much for spirits but my body is tense and thrumming and I'm sure something strong and alcoholic would help calm and soothe it a little.
"A house," he confirms. "Out of state. A friend of hers is a realtor. I thought you could do with somewhere quiet to write, and I thought we could do with somewhere to relax at weekends. It was going to be a surprise. My anniversary gift to you." He drops his eyes from my face and stares into his glass.
"Oh," is all I can say. More guilt.
I stand and cross the room to switch on one of the lamps. The light is fading fast and it feels like I've been in this room for days not hours. On the way back I reach down and lift the bottle of Jack Daniels from next to Oliver's leg and uncap it and take three large gulps. The painful sting on the back of my throat as I swallow is comforting. He watches me the whole time, soft and warm. Softer and warmer than I deserve.
"Why aren't you angrier at me?" I ask him as I hand him back the bottle.
He takes it and tops up his glass again. "I am angry at you," he says, his eyes fixed on mine. "What do you want from me? Screaming? Shouting? Crying?"
I take my seat and give a shake of my head. "I just thought you'd be angrier at me that's all. I thought you'd despise me."
"I adore you," he says simply. "I always have. Since the moment I laid eyes on you I've adored you. The second you walked into that hotel bar that day I knew I wanted you to be my wife. I wanted you to want me the same way. But you never have."
I glance down and pick off another piece of skin. "Do you ever think you made a mistake?"
"With what?"
"Asking me to marry you. Marrying me?" I ask. I feel my bones starting to soften ever so slightly with the ingestion of Oliver's whiskey.
"No," he states. "I'm not blind. I wasn't blind then, either. I knew how you felt about me when you agreed to marry me. I just thought in time you'd change your mind. I thought I could change your mind."
"I tried. I tried so bloody hard, Oliver. I care about you; I love you and I care about you, deeply. And there were times when I felt like I was truly in love with you." I need him to understand. Why I don't know but I do.
He nods and lifts his glass, his eyes holding mine as he swallows. "And how hard did you have to try for him, baby?"
My breath falters. "What do you mean?"
"You're in love with him. Clearly," Oliver says. I feel something happen in my body. There's a noise, like a bomb going off quietly, and then everything is dreamlike and silent. Heavenly actually. "I'm still not blind, Eloise. I stood there for a while watching you —watching you look at him how I always wanted you to look at me. You're in love with him."
I try and bite and swallow back the shameful guilty tears. He doesn't need to see them again. Not now. Then I realise these ones aren't shameful or guilt leaden.
They're relief. Like the day at the dentist.
So Aidan didn't have to ask the other question in the end. Because Oliver knew the answer anyway.
Yes," I say. "I'm in love with him."
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