Page 50 of The Husband I Left

She continues eating, and I rack my brain, trying to think of anything I could say that would make any of this better. There isn’t anything.

“I have a question.”

“Anything,” I quickly reply. “I’ll answer any questions you have.”

She sets down her cutlery and leans back in her chair, regarding me with an expression I can’t quite read. “How did you see things playing out? Let’s say Victoria never sent me that picture. Let’s pretend the gala never happened, and I never left. I just continued to sit at home and not ask questions like a good obedient little wife until you’d played out your revenge fantasy and then we went to Greece as planned? What would have happened next? Would you ever have told me what really happened with Victoria?”

Whatever I was expecting her to ask, it wasn’t that. I open my mouth, but no answer comes out. Because I honestly don’t know.

“Because I don’t think you would have,” she continues relentlessly, “I think I would have been expected to put it in the past and you would have showered me with a bunch of gifts and over the top grand gestures until I stopped asking questions. And in your mind everything would have been fixed.”

I just stare at her, acutely aware that there is no way for me to answer this question without looking even worse in her eyes.

“But that doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t have stopped wondering, Oliver,” she leans forward, her green eyes boring into mine, “it just means I would have stopped expecting you to be honest with me. It would always have been there in the back of my mind. And I think you would have left me like that. Wondering if you’d had an affair, knowing that I would never really know. Wondering if it would ever happen again.”

The silence that falls between us is deafening. I want to deny it, to tell her she’s wrong, but the words stick in my throat. Because she’s not wrong, is she? Would I have ever willingly told her the truth about Victoria if she hadn’t forced the issue? I don’t think I would have.

“The problem is,” Genny says after a moment, picking up her cutlery again. “I don’t think you know what love is.”

“I certainly do know what love is,” I start to protest, but stop when she points her fork at me.

“Do you, though?” she asks. “Do you really? Was it love when you weren’t honest with me about why you wanted to marry me? Was it love when you let me think you were having an affair? Think about that, Oliver. You knew I was unhappy. You knew that I thought you were sleeping with her. You knew your actions were hurting me, and you kept doing them anyway because your wounded pride was more important to you than my pain.”

“I can be better,” the words sound weak even to my own ears.

Genny quirks her head, studying me like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve. “Can you really?”

I nod, desperate to convince her; to convince myself.

“You know, all of this is ignoring the fact that you married me as part of a revenge plot and lied to me for years, which I do not forgive you for,” Genny continues, and the hurt that I can hear in her voice makes me wince. “And honestly? I don’t think I could have lived in the gilded prison that was your world for much longer, anyway. The cost was too high.”

Something in me bristles at this. “You certainly spent our marriage enjoying the privileges my money could buy you,” I say, more sharply than I intended. “So don’t pretend you hated it now.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Genny’s expression doesn‘t change, but something shutters behind her eyes.

“I didn’t say I didn’t enjoy it, Oliver,” she says quietly. “I said the cost was too high.”

She returns to her meal, and I sit in miserable silence, trying to think of some argument that will convince her to stay. But what can I say? Every defense I come up with sounds hollow, even in my own head.

Finally, Genny looks up from her nearly empty plate. “Do you remember how I told you once about the car accident my mother was in when I was in high school?”

I nod, not sure where she’s going with this.

“She was badly hurt,” Genny continues, “and for a long time, she couldn’t do much for herself.”

I remember vaguely. Genny mentioned it once or twice.

“Her recovery took a long time. My father took care of her,” she says, her voice soft with memory. “Including helping her wash and other… well, he did everything for her that she couldn’t do for herself.” She looks directly at me then, her gaze penetrating. “I wonder if you would ever be willing to make such sacrifices for someone you loved.”

I don’t answer her question. Because the truth is, I don’t know. I’ve never been tested that way. My life has been one of privilege and ease, of problems solved with money rather than sacrifice.

The server approaches our table again. “Can I get you anything else?” he asks Genny.

“Just the check, please,” she replies.

We sit in silence until the check arrives. Genny pulls out her card and hands it to the server. I stir from my stupor and reach for my wallet.

“I can pay,” I say, pulling out my card. “I want to pay.”