Page 20 of The Husband I Left

This becomes a pattern that plays out over and over again over the next several days. Oliver makes an attempt, and I rebuff him. Oliver asks about my plans in the morning, and I invent plans with Evan. Oliver comes home for dinner, and I make sure I’m somewhere else. Oliver asks me to join him doing something: a walk, dinner at a restaurant he thinks I might like, a drive up the coast, and I decline and make sure he knows exactly who I’m declining him for. I take Evan’s calls on speakerphone in the living room. I laugh at my phone loudly and often, and I make sure Oliver can hear it.

“Are you talking to him?” Oliver asks one evening from the doorway of the den. He’s still in his suit, tie loosened, and he’s been lingering there for almost a full minute, watching me.

I smile down at my screen. “Maybe I am. What of it?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then carefully he asks, “Are you really seeing him, Genevieve?”

I blink, feigning incomprehension. “Seeing who?”

He looks frustrated, as though I’m deliberately obtuse. “Evan. The man you’re texting right now. Just how involved are you two?”

I laugh. “Oliver, I might be new to this whole open marriage business, but I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to talk about my…companions with you.”

He looks as if I’d slapped him. “Honestly, Oliver,” I say. “If you aren’t happy about it, you have no one but yourself to blame, considering you started us down this road.”

“I did not–” Oliver stops, takes a deep breath, and walks away.

He tries again two days later. And again, the day after that. Is it serious? How long has it been going on? Every time I laugh and throw Victoria’s name in his face and he goes quiet and cold and walks away.

On Thursday, I spend the afternoon and evening with Evan. He’s helping me look at apartments because while Oliver doesn’t realize it yet, I do have an exit date. I fill out a few applications and then we celebrate by getting Chinese takeout and eating it back at Evan’s apartment. So it’s late when I walk in the door of the penthouse.

The first thing I notice is that the dining room lights are on. I stop in the doorway. The table is set for two; several covered dishes sit on the sideboard, and Mrs. Stewart is nowhere in sight. Oliver is sitting at the far end of the table with his hands folded in front of him, an open bottle of wine next to him.

He stands up. “You’re home.”

“I am,” I hold up the plastic bag with my leftovers. “I already ate, though. Evan and I got takeout.”

Oliver nods and his shoulders drop as he looks down at the set table. I almost feel sorry for him. And then I remember the picture of him and Victoria, the necklace around her neck. And I stop feeling sorry for him.

“Of course,” he says quietly. “I should have asked if you had plans.”

We look at each other for a few minutes. I have no idea what to do with my hands.

“Tomorrow,” he says, looking back up at me. “I’ll be home by six. I promise. Will you have dinner with me?” He pauses, and then, so softly I almost miss it, he adds, “Please, Genny.”

I open my mouth to say something cutting, to point out Victoria is surely going to miss him if he keeps spending all his time chasing me. But I can’t do it. He called me Genny. Not Genevieve.

“Fine,” I hear myself say instead. “Dinner tomorrow. Make sure you’re home on time.”

And I turn my back and walk away from his promises that he will be and expressions of gratitude.

* * *

I agreed to have dinner with Oliver. I never said that it would be a romantic dinner. Or even a very good dinner.

The first thing I do after Oliver has left for work Friday morning is find Mrs. Stewart and give her the day off. Paid, obviously. “I want to cook for my husband,” I tell her with a smile.

Mrs. Stewart has had a front row seat to my entire marriage. The look she gives me tells me I’m not fooling anyone. But she agrees to leave for the day. On her way out the door, she pauses and pats my arm and says, “Give him hell, dear.”

Yes ma’am.

The next thing is my appearance. I put a lot of time and effort into my appearance for the evening.

Finally, I obtained the food. And by that, I mean I grabbed my phone and opened DoorDash. It arrives just minutes before Oliver. By the time the elevator dings, I’m standing at the kitchen island, waiting.

He comes through the kitchen door, loosening his tie with a smile on his face, just in time to hear my yelled “catch!”

To be fair to Oliver, he wasn’t expecting it.