Page 21 of The Husband I Left

He fails to catch. The bag containing his burger and fries hit him square on the chest before falling to the ground. Startled, he looks down at the french fries now spilling out on the floor at his feet.

“Oh, bad luck there,” I tell him, snatching up my own bag and strutting out to the main room. “They’re probably okay though; floors clean. Ten second rule and all that.”

I leave him standing in the doorway, staring down at his spilled fries while I collapse on the couch and turn on the TV.

“Is this…is this what we’re eating tonight?” He asks as bends down and starts scooping fries back into the bag.

“Yep,” I tell him around a mouthful of burger.

“I—” he pauses and I can see him recalibrating. “All right. Then let me take you out. I’ll call the Rialto and have them hold a table. We can be there in twenty minutes.”

I snort. “No, thanks.”

He joins me on the couch, and his eyes widen as he takes in my ratty bubblegum pink hoodie from high school, grumpy cat pajama pants and Christmas themed fluffy socks. I’m not wearing makeup, and my hair has been wrestled up into a messy bun, loose tendrils escaping to form a fluffy red halo around my face.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he pulls out the burger and unwraps it. He looks at it for a second and then starts eating.

For a few minutes, neither of us talks. “Genny,” Oliver finally says. He crumples up his empty wrapper and drops it on the coffee table, and turns toward me. “Let me take you out tomorrow night. A real date. Anywhere you want. I’ll clear the whole evening.”

“Will Victoria be joining us?” I ask. “Or will you be seeing her on a different night?”

He closes his eyes. “Genevieve.”

“What? Seems like a thing I should know.”

“I am not seeing Victoria.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve gotten tired of her already.”

“I haven’t — I don’t want to talk about Victoria anymore.”

“You want to stop talking about Victoria? Fine.” I twist on the couch so I’m looking him right in the eye. “I’ll never bring her up again. But first, you look at me. You look at me and tell me that she’s never been anything more than your assistant.”

We stare at each other for a moment. Oliver doesn’t say anything.

“That’s what I thought,” I say with a snort, turning back to the TV.

“It’s not what you — Look, I am trying,” he says, and there’s an edge coming into his voice now. “I’m trying to fix this. I’m home for dinner. I’m home in the mornings. I’m sitting on this couch eating—” He gestures at the crumpled wrapper. “I’m trying.”

“You are indeed very trying,” I start eating my fries.

“I just want one date. One chance to show you how I — please, Genny.”

“A date,” I repeat.

“A date. Just one.”

“Will it be a replay of the dates you took me on before we were married?” My voice is starting to climb and I can’t seem to stop it. “Because those were very effective, Oliver. Really excellent work. Six weeks of that and I married a man I didn’t know at all. And look where that got me. Why on earth would I want to do that again?”

Oliver looks at me for a long time. His jaw works once, twice. He doesn’t say anything. There’s anger in his expression, but there’s also more than that. For the first time since I met him, Oliver Sinclair is afraid.

“Enjoy your evening, Genny,” he says finally, quietly.

He picks up his suit jacket from the back of the chair where he draped it. He straightens his cuffs. And he walks to his office, and just before he closes the door, he looks at me with an expression I can’t name.

It doesn’t matter; I tell myself. He’s a big boy. He made his bed. Several beds, probably, in several cities, with a certain blonde.

I eat the rest of my fries, which are cold now, and then, because I hate waste, and because I’m apparently a glutton for punishment in every sense of the word, I eat the rest of his too.