Devon scuttles past, making a noise of greeting as she does. I lift my chin in answer. Bitch.
Asher sets his keys on the counter and glances at the Thai bags. “Takeout?”
He has the nerve to sound annoyed. Asshole. Did he imagine I came home and went full Julia Child after the way he fucked me over earlier? "Yep. Best I could do. I stopped on the way home," I say, keeping my voice light. “Plus, I was in the mood for Thai.”
He shrugs. “Sure, I guess.” There's a pause, and then he steps closer. "Can we talk for a second?"
I turn to face him, my arms crossed. "About?"
He runs a hand through his hair. "About today. I know you weren't expecting it, but it was the only way.”
I study him. His expression is apologetic, but I see through it now. Or at the very least, I know he can lie without blinking. So to me, this expression reads false. Like he's been practicing this in his head. Maybe he practiced on Devon in the car. Fuck, he probably did.
“I see. So, the only way was to purposely ambush me," I say evenly. "Then you sat there and let that therapist blame me for everything while you and Devon nodded along."
"That's not what happened."
"That's exactly what happened, Asher. Don’t insult my intelligence."
He exhales. "Dr. Reeves was just trying to get everyone's perspective. She wasn't blaming you."
I laugh, but there's no humor in it. “She suggested I get individual therapy several times per week to manage my stress. She made it sound like I'm the problem."
"You're not the problem," he says hollowly. "Nobody thinks that."
"Devon does. Dr. Reeves does. And you sat there and said nothing, which means you do, too."
He looks away, but I swear, he looks like he wants to agree.
"I didn't know what to say."
"You could have said something. Anything. You could have told her that this has been hard on both of us. That we're all adjusting. But you didn't. You just sat there. Apparently after you’d met with the doctor— a woman I’ve never met— and told her that I have abandonment issues. I think that was an interesting choice on your part. I’m wondering what to do with that and how to move forward with a husband who shares my personal history with strangers I don’t know.”
He looks panicked, suddenly. Like he’s wondering if he went too far. "No. Fuck. That’s not… Fuck, babe. I'm sorry." His voice is quiet. "I should have said something. You're right."
I wait, but he doesn't say anything else. No explanation. No promise to do better. Just a hollow as hell apology. I’m fuckingoverhis shitty apologies. If I never hear another, it will be too soon. Unfortunately, I can’t say that right now. So I do what I have to do to close the book on this day. “Okay.”
"Are you mad?" he asks.
I am burn-the-fucking-world-down mad, but I need to buy time. I know I do. So I consider lying. Telling him I'm fine, that it's water under the bridge. But I'm too tired for that. And more than that, I’m tired of this asshole thinking he’s winning. Because it’s clear to me now, after what happened today, that he absolutely thinks he's got the upper hand.
"I'm not thrilled," I say. "But I'm an adult. I'll get over it."
He looks relieved. Like that's all he needed to hear. "Cool. I don't want things to be weird between us."
Things are already weird and about to get much weirder, actually. But I’m through trying to talk to this man. "Cool," I say instead, echoing his word back to him. Fucking idiot.
He steps closer and kisses my cheek. "Thank you. For being understanding."
“Okay.”
Asher pours himself a glass of water and sits down. "Should I get Devon?"
"No need. I'd bet money she's on her way back down."
As if on cue, I hear footsteps on the stairs. Devon appears in the doorway a moment later, wearing leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. She's delicate in a way I'm not—blonde like me but softer somehow, more fragile. High cheekbones, a pointed chin, eyes that look impossibly young and wounded.
She looks even younger without makeup, and infinitely more breakable. I’d like to slap the shit out of her and watch her crumble. When she sees me, her eyes do a quick sweep—assessing, calculating. Like she's reading the room, reading me. Then her expression shifts into something softer, more vulnerable. Still playing the little victim.
