"Hold on," he says, not looking at me. "I need to?—"
"Don't."
The word comes out sharper than I intended, but I’m sick of sugar coating. He looks surprised by the force of my statement.
"It's our anniversary," I say, trying to keep my voice level. "Whatever it is, it can wait."
"Julie…"
The phone keeps ringing. That goddamn tone. I want to throw the phone across the room. "Please," I say, and I hate how small my voice sounds. How desperate. "Just for dinner. One fucking night. Please."
He looks torn. Actually torn. Like this is a difficult decision. Like choosing between his wife on our anniversary and his stepsister's latest crisis is somehow a fucking dilemma.
The ringing stops. I exhale. "Thank you," I say.
He nods, but he's not looking at me anymore. His jaw is clenched and he’s looking at his phone, face down on the table between us like a live grenade.
The waiter comes back. "Are you ready to order?"
"No. Give us a few more minutes," Asher snaps.
Great. He’s treating the waiter like an asshole. I’m not surprised when the poor man nods and backs away like he’s hoping our table will dissolve while he’s gone. We need to move on from the phone. "So, how was your day?" I ask, because that's what you do. You make conversation. You pretend everything is normal.
Asher gives me an exasperated look. "I run one of the biggest cyber companies in the world, so busy. Yours?"
Oh yay, he’s shifted into prick mode. This night just keeps getting better. "Good. We got an order from a high end boutique in New York City. Jamie's excited."
"Oh, yeah, right, that's nice. Sounds fun."
He's not listening. It’s obvious. He's somewhere else in his head. So much for the reset. The phone rings again. This time he doesn't hesitate. He picks it up, looks at the screen, and I see it—the decision being made in real time. I watch my husband choose. "Be just a moment," he says, standing up.
"Asher—"
But he's already walking away, phone pressed to his ear, his voice dropping to that low, intimate tone he used to reserve for me. And now I’m alone. Again. I can see him through the window. He's outside on the sidewalk, pacing. His free hand is running through his hair. He looks worried. Focused. Present in a way he hasn't been present with me in months.
The waiter approaches. "Is everything all right?"
"Sure," I lie. "Everything's great."
I can see Asher through the window and I can see the way he’s completely absorbed in whatever Devon is saying. I can already tell that this isn’t going to end well. He comes back inside. I’m no psychic but I know what he's going to say before he says it.
"I’m going home." His tone is firm, indicating the decision is final.
"It'sour anniversary."
"I get that, Julie. But the reality is it’s just a date on the calendar. There’s nothing wrong with delaying the celebration. Especially when she's really struggling. I can't just?—"
"You can't just leave her," I finish.
“Exactly.” He smiles like he’s relieved I’m seeing reason.
"But youcanleave me."
The smile drops. "Jesus, Julie. Stop being a shrew and grow the fuck up,” he hisses.
A shrew. Guess it's a step up from cunt? Or maybe just below it. Wonderful. "Don’t talk to me like that. I’m allowed to feel the way I do about all of this.”
He looks at me and I see it: annoyance. With me. He's already made his choice. This conversation is mere formality and one that he’s frustrated with.
