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I can’t see her eyes, but I watch her hand go to her face and I know she’s wiping tears away. “I’ve always known. We were best friends. How could I not?”
No. That makes no sense. I get up from the bed, stretch my arms, lower them again. My muscles feel restless. My mind is spinning. “But…you kissed me, Becca. You married me.”
Why?
She grabs onto the windowsill, hauls herself up, stares out of the window, and for a while I don’t think she’s going to answer me. But then she turns around, looks me right in the eye from all the way across the room. “Because I loved you,” she says, the tears flooding her voice now. “Because I thought, maybe, I could love you enough for the both of us.”
Jesus.
“Oh, Becca…”
My own tears start to fall, pricking like pins as they well in my eyes before rolling freely down my cheeks. I want to fall into her arms. I want to run away, slam the door, and never see her face again. Who betrayed who here? It’s unfair to think it. I know it. I’m the only one who broke a vow. But what kind of life is that for her? For us.
“All this time,” I start, until she cuts me off.
Hobbling towards me with outstretched arms, she says, “But it worked, didn’t it?” She takes my hands, wraps them in her fists. “For a long time, you were happy, weren’t you?”
I can’t give an honest answer. I don’t know which would be the lie. “We’ve had good times,” is the truth. “And we created the best kids. Damn, Becca, I wouldn’t trade those kids for anything.”
She manages to smile, despite sniffling. “Yeah. Yeah, we did.”
“And I did love you. I do. I meant that.”
She releases a chuckle void of humour and drops my hands. “But not as much as him, right?”
There’s an ache in the pit of my stomach as she asks that question, the same one I felt when Laurence told me he loved me. “I…I don’t know. Like I said, this isn’t about Laurence.”
Becca’s eyes widen, exposing the whites around her pupils. “Are you telling me you’re stood here trying to end this marriage over a fling? Over someone you don’t even love?”
What? “I…I don’t…”
“Do you know his favourite song?” she asks
“No.” I’m not sure what she’s getting at.
“Do you know whether he prefers baths or showers? How he likes his steak? Ketchup or brown sauce on his bacon. Scrambled or fried egg. Spring or autumn. Does he want to be buried or cremated?”
“Shit, Rebecca, what are—”
“Or how about when he’s angry or stressed. Does he need space? Quiet. Or does he like to be kept busy?”
I don’t know.
“Does he know that you sleep with the windows open, even in winter?”
“All right, all right. I get it.”
“Do you, Will? Love is more than passion. Than…than sex. It’s the half a lifetime we’ve spent getting to know the ins and outs of each other. You can’t possibly have that with him. Loving him can’t even be a question!”
Dammit. My eyes close and my nails dig into my palms. I don’t know how much longer I can do this. How can she not see that whether I love Laurence or not, has nothing to do with why we’re standing here like this? “I’m fucking gay, Rebecca. That’s why we shouldn’t be married.”
“It hasn’t been a problem so far.” She says it with such conviction that I don’t recognise her anymore. She sounds…wicked, almost. Conniving.
“Because we didn’t know about it! At least, I tried not to and, believe me, I had no fucking idea you did!”
“So this is my fault?”
“I didn’t say that.”
I huff. I sigh. I try to breathe normally but can’t. “We can’t pretend like this hasn’t happened, Becs. What’s the matter with you?”
“What’s wrong with me? I’m your wife, Will! And a mother. Have you even thought about what this will do to our kids?”
“Of course I have.” And it all but kills me. “Lucy’s an adult now. Ben almost is. I’m prepared to deal with—”
“What about what they’re prepared to deal with?” she interrupts. Again. “Do you think they’re prepared to deal with being the latest TikTok trend because their father’s fucking a movie star?”
Christ. How hadn’t I thought of that? “Rebecca…”
“Do you think Ben’s college mates are just going to ignore that when they see your photo on Twitter, arm in arm with Laurence fucking Cole?”
“Becca, please…”
“And God, I don’t even know how I’m supposed to show my face at work again. I’ll be a laughingstock.” Crying hysterically, she collapses onto the bed, burying her face in her hands.
The rational part of my brain is screaming at me not to, but the instinct to hold her, care for her, heal her pain is too overwhelming. I join her on the bed, put an arm around her shoulder.
