“Who is she?” is the first question out of my mouth.
“Her name is Amanda.”
The name cuts me. Before, she was a nameless thing. Now she’s a woman with a pretty name.
“How did you meet her?” I ask.
“It was at the signing in London last spring,” he says. “A year ago.”
“Is she British?” I ask. If the woman has a sexy British accent, it’s game over. Seriously, how am I supposed to compete with that? I lost my Latino accent a long time ago.
He finally looks at me. “No, she’s from New York state,” he tells me. “I swear, Gabbie, I’ve never… I’ve never done this before.”
I don’t know why, but I believe him. Maybe it’s because I want to believe, maybe it’s because it’s the truth. His eyes seem so sincere, and his words ring so true.
“So is she one of your groupies?” I ask. I am not done with the inquisition — nowhere near done.
He shakes his head. “No, she’s an author. She writes psychological thrillers.”
“What’s her full name?” I demand.
“Gabbie…” he whispers. His eyes are pleading. “You don’t need to know…”
“What the fuck is her name?”
He swallows hard. “Amanda Tucker.”
What the…
The name is familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. I think hard. She’s an author, so perhaps we’ve met before, but I don’t recall. No face pops up. Maybe I’ve read one of her books… And then it hits me. I know her. I’ve read one of her novels. And I liked it. I have no idea what she looks like. A wave of nausea hits me hard, and I get the sudden urge to vomit all over his precious loveseat, his laptop, and him...
“Do you love her?” I ask softly. Such a cliché question, I’m disgusted with myself. I’m such a cliché — bored middle-aged plain housewife, betrayed by her handsome successful husband, cast aside for a younger more exciting woman.
He doesn’t answer fast enough. “Do you love her?” I ask again, but this time, I practically scream it.Do you fucking love her or not?
“It’s complicated,” he says.
I spring from the couch.
Wrong fucking answer.
He reaches for me, and grabs my wrist forcefully. “Sit down, Gabbie. I’m not done.”
I sit, flustered and unsettled.
“I don’t love her like I love you,” he explains. “You’re the love of my life, Gabbie. We’ve been together forever. You’re the mother of my children. You’re everything to me. But her…”
“But her, what?!”
“She’s under my skin,” he says.
He might as well have reached into my chest cavity, and ripped my heart out. I know exactly what he means… he’s crazy about her. I know because I’ve felt it myself. With Eli.
“So it’s not just sex?” I ask, hoping he will tell me it is.
He shakes his head again. And again, he doesn’t look me in the eye. “It’s a bit more… it’s not love, but I’m… pretty caught up.”
My heart sinks. He’s being so honest, so open with me. I’m not surprised. He’s always been like this — he wears his emotions on his sleeve. This secret must have been killing him. I can almost see the relief on his face. This is why he’s not been himself lately, why he’s been acting so strange. I should have known.
