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Or is it just that I haven’t spoken to anyone about Aaron for a really long time? Even within my family, he is a taboo subject. My parents’ shame is a complex emotion—their shame at my divorce, at the situation I was in and at their inability to be there for me when I needed them.
‘My ex,’ I say.
Noah laughs. Just a short sound that mixes derision with amusement. ‘Obviously.’ He drawls the word in his best, most mocking tone. Why do I find even that sexy?
Because I like bad guys. Shouldn’t I have learned my lesson by now?
‘When’d you break up?’
These are normal questions. And yet ice is taking over the flames within me, cooling me, reminding me of the fear that dogged my every step for many years. ‘We...grew apart.’ I reach for my champagne and take several sips, my eyes focused on a point over his shoulder.
‘I call bullshit.’
He’s right. I jerk my head in a small nod. ‘We were together a long time. Right from school... We dated while I was at university and then when I opened my practice.’ My eyes meet his for a moment and I’m comforted by whatever it is I see in their depths. He tops up my champagne and murmurs something I don’t catch, but words I take as encouragement to continue.
To my surprise, I do just that. ‘He’s a musician,’ I say, rolling my eyes at my innocent naivety. ‘A guitarist.’ As though that explains everything. ‘Very, profoundly talented. But a tortured artistic soul.’ I’m making light of the situation. My parents aren’t the only ones with shame coursing through their veins.
He nods, his eyes drilling into me. ‘What aren’t you saying?’
I’m surprised. It must show on my face. I’m the one who reads people and yet he’s summarised me with ease. And though this isn’t a therapy session and he’s not my patient, I add his perceptiveness to what I know about him. It is not uncommon in people who have experienced lengthy trauma—trauma like mine. I became adept at analysing every single flicker of emotion that passed over someone’s face; I suppose that was my flight or fight instincts.
‘Why do you think there’s anything I’m not saying?’
He shrugs. ‘Because it’s the truth.’
‘You think you know me so well?’
‘Well? Am I wrong?’
Our eyes are locked; it is a battle of wills that is making my knees tremble. I reach for my champagne and realise he’s hardly touched his beer.
‘No,’ I say, once I’ve had a sip. ‘It’s just not a subject I like to talk about.’
‘There’s an irony in that.’ He grins.
‘I’m a therapist,’ I tack on. ‘It’s my job to ask the questions, not answer them.’
‘Whereas you just want to fuck me?’
My cheeks burn at the directness of his question. ‘I...’
‘How long were you together?’ He lobs the question back, his directness reminding me that he is a very successful businessman. That beneath the bad boy stubble and the loud, growling motorbike and the fact he swears and drinks like a sailor, he is smart and incisive, ruthless and intelligent.
‘Six years.’
‘And were you happy together?’
‘What do you think?’ I deflect. ‘We split up.’
‘That might mean he cheated or you did...’
‘I didn’t cheat,’ I say firmly. ‘And I don’t think he did either.’
‘So?’ He shrugs. ‘What happened?’
It’s highly likely the glass and a half of champagne I’ve consumed on a near-empty stomach have loosened my tongue, or maybe it’s the five years of not speaking to anyone except my lawyer and the judge, but I hear myself say, ‘When I was four months pregnant with Ivy, he strangled me until I passed out.’ I can’t look at him. The shame that runs through me is hard to ignore. I trace invisible circles around the base of my champagne flute. ‘I kept thinking he’d change, you know? It wasn’t like he was abusive—that’s what I used to tell myself. He was just stressed. His recording contract was dissolved, or he felt inferior to me because I earned five times what he did.’ I shrug. The excuses sound so ridiculous to me now. ‘And it was nothing—in the beginning. You know? Like he’d grab my arm too tig
ht, but he was always so apologetic. And I’d known him and loved him for so long.’ Tears clog the back of my throat. I thought I was done crying for him!
