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“My ex-wife taught me. Cooking is one of the things we bonded over.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. That must have been difficult.” Inexplicably, my eyes filled and my nose stung. I looked away, hurt that he’d bonded with another woman over something we’d never shared. “I mean, not about the cooking and all. About the divorce.”
“The marriage was difficult. The divorce was easier. I never should have married Katy in the first place.”
“Why not?” I asked, glancing back to find his gaze on me.
“My heart wasn’t fully in it.” He gave me a hard look. “I think you know why.”
“It’s not because of me.” I shook my head. “Don’t put that burden on me. Please. I have enough bad things I feel responsible for.”
“I didn’t tell you to make you feel bad.” He slid the second omelet out of the pan, turned off the gas, and brought two mustard-colored plates sprinkled with cilantro garnish to the table before taking a seat beside me.
“Why did you tell me?” I asked.
“To be honest, I had to skirt around my feelings so much when we were younger. I don’t want to do that anymore. Andy and Collin are gone. Miranda too, and Daniel.” He shook his head sadly. “Life’s too short not to lay all our cards on the table without any bluffing or bullshit, don’t you think?”
I wished it were that easy. That transparency was just a choice. But choices came with consequences, wrong ones like mine that I could never escape.
“This smells delicious,” I said a bit too loudly. “I can’t wait to eat.”
I placed my paper napkin on my lap and picked up the fork that had been on it. While he cooked, I’d set the table. It wasn’t difficult to find things.
In his spacious two-bedroom apartment, the kitchen took up the entire long wall on one side of the common room. The living room with a big couch, two recliners, and a bank of tall windows where early morning sunlight streamed inside filled the other.
Plates and glasses were on open shelves on either side of the stovetop. The drawer with silverware was right beside the large undercounter-mounted sink. The orange juice, I’d easily located in the door of the stainless-steel side-by-side fridge.
“What happened with you and Martin?” Barry asked.
I dropped my fork. The bite that had been poised on the tines tumbled onto the plate. My face stinging like I’d been attacked by a swarm of hornets, I didn’t respond.
“Is it still difficult to talk about?” he asked.
I nodded.
“You went to therapy,” he said, more a question than a statement.
“Yes, but I didn’t finish it.”
“Why not?”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Addy.” He shifted his chair closer, and the feet that must have had rubber tips squeaked like sneakers on a gym over his shiny hardwood floor. “Come on. Talk to me.”
“You don’t really want to know what he did. No one wants to know that,” I said through gritted teeth.
“I want to know.” He covered my hand with his.
Opening my eyes, I stared at his hand—so big it completely engulfed mine—rather than at him. His return brought up feelings I’d rolled up and stored inside me like an old rug.
“Not to make you feel bad or ashamed, but because I care about you and don’t want to scare you like I did earlier.”
“Oh.” God, I’d missed Barry’s understanding and insight as much as I’d missed the comfort of his touch.
“Did he force you to have sex?”
That truth I’d buried deeper than any of the others. Dredging it up from the depths inside me took tremendous effort. I didn’t want to tell him, but then again, I did. He said he wanted to know, and if anyone would understand, it would be him. Wrestling within myself, I stared at his hand so hard my eyes burned.
