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I took my wife’s hand and pulled her into me, guiding her out with an
arm around her shoulder. We didn’t speak until I’d closed the suite door
behind her.
“I had your things sent up.” I pointed at the bag left by the entrance.
“Thank you.”
“Ella,” I said in a tone that set up a reasonable discussion between
reasonable adults.
“I’ll stay up here. You can go back down if you want.”
“No.” I jerked my tie open, and she stood in the center of the suite’s
living room with her molten silver ball gown and makeup designed for a
party. “I don’t want.”
She passed me to get her bag then walked through the bedroom to
disappear into the bathroom. I watched her shadow move across the light
under the door, then I sat on a chair by the bed. King-sized mattress. More
comfortable than the hood of a car.
God, what had I done?
I should be fucking her on that bed or not at all.
She stepped into the dimly-lit room, arms crossed over her pajama top,
sock feet set apart. She’d made a choice—whatever it was—and was
sticking to it. I stood up and crossed my arms, because she didn’t get to
make all the decisions.
“No,” she said.
“Did I ask a question?”
“No divorce,” she said. “I promised my father I wouldn’t abandon his
name. And I’m aware he’s dead. So don’t say it. But the bottom line is,
Papillion doesn’t belong to me. I can’t put a single butterfly on a single
shoe on my own. The only way I have to honor his request is to keep my
job and fight for his name.”
This woman had the business sense of a bent spoon. Fuzzy goals. No
strategy. Tactics that included indefinite, undefined expenditures.
“Great plan,” I said. “If by ‘great,’ I meant ‘nonexistent,’ which I did.”
Immediately, I was sorry I’d snapped at her and shut her out, but the
only other option was letting her in, and that would make it all worse.
“Are you taking the couch or am I?” she asked.
“I will,” I said, and went into the bathroom. The mirror had a little TV
set into it, so a guy could watch the morning news while he shaved and
avoid looking at himself altogether.