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“I thought you were being modest.”
“You set up a dinner with a totally powerful art dealer I’m not ready to
meet like you wanted to be as vicious as possible in the shortest amount of
time. Then you have the audacity to ask me why I’m nervous. But”—I
pointed in his face—“lucky ass you, I know you better. I know you’re not
cruel. You’re just selfish, self-involved, self-centered. You’re the little
piggy at the end of the line going”—I poked his chest with each me—“me,
me, me, me all the way home.”
“This dinner was for you, because I never see you, and if I have to meet
with Mike, I might as well give you someone to talk to. It’s what a husband
does.”
“Wait, wait. You never see me? Why does that matter?”
Why did it matter? It shouldn’t. It didn’t. I knew it didn’t because that
was the deal.
I’d let the cat out of the bag to both me and him.
I wanted him.
“This has been a humiliating disaster.” I looked at my phone. The car
was close but needed to be closer before I said more stupid shit.
“Humiliating that she knew your group?”
He thought the fact that Mandy and Selma had souvenirs in their wallets
was some kind of social proof.
He was right. It was social proof that I’d given up more than I could
ever get back.
“She knew about nothing.” I put down the device. “Nothing that’s mine.
You made me leave it. I was doing something important and I dumped it to
be your wife. What the fuck was I thinking? I let you ruin everything. You
know what? I might as well take your name. Walk the walk. Be a
placeholder for the next Mrs. Logan Crowne.”
The car came, and the doors unlocked with a clack.
“I’m going with you.” He opened the back door.
“Logan.” I got between him and the back seat. “Stop. Jesus Christ, you
don’t listen!”
“You’re talking crazy. This isn’t Ella.”
“Yes, it is. Please. It is.” I sat and grabbed the handle, but he held it
open.
“I don’t want this to be why we broke up,” he said. “This isn’t the story
I want to tell.”