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He said, his reasonable façade finally punctured, “If you weren’t such a controlling bitch, maybe it wouldn’t have happened!”
A murmur at that, and Quinn said, “I think that’s my cue to leave. He brought me here so I wouldn’t make a scene and inconvenience him, but I don’t perform to orders. I’m sure that’s another failing, wife-material-wise.” She stepped away from the table, then changed her mind, grabbed her folded napkin, shook it out, and piled her crab into it. “I’m going to eat this at home,” she told the crowd. “And if your husband tells you that he cheated because you were too strong and too independent, that you weren’t adoring enough, that you weren’t exciting enough in bed? Let me tell you one thing I’ve learned over my legal career. Cheaters cheat and liars lie, and they blame other people for it every time. You didn’t have anything to do with that decision.”
With that, she pushed her chair in and told Craig, “When you pay the bill, make sure they add the cost of the napkin,” and left.
Did she cry in the car? Not too much, because inattentive driving wasn’t safe. Did she cry when she got home, though? Definitely. She paced, she cried, and she didnotcall anybody, because who did you want to share your humiliation with? Nobody.
Except for all the people who’d witnessed it tonight. Which was her ownfault.Saying all that had felt strong. What it had actually been, she was realizing, was the exact opposite. She’d offered up her weakness, her failure, because what else was this, really? A failure to choose right, or, worse, a failure to make a man feel wanted and happy and to make him want to hold you and cherish you andkeepyou.
And she’d told everyone.
When she was done crying, when her eyes were puffy and her nose was red and she’d pulled off her stupid going-out clothes, which were probably as wrong as the rest of her, she stood in the shower and cried some more. She was scrubbing her face, knowing that her hair would be standing up in clumps in the morning and also knowing that it didn’t matter, because there was nobody to care. She wasn’t going to be golfing with an oncologist and his trophy wife, tomorrow or ever. She was going for a long swim in the lake, then doing her Gentle Swim lessons for “people who’d probably brought their problems on themselves”—or, in this case, their kids—earning about ten dollars for it, and feeling lighter in her spirit to watch an eight-year-old blow his first bubbles underwater than she ever had collecting the fee for the most contentious, ruinous, high-net-worth divorce.
That was when she saw Craig’s Mane shampoo and root treatment on the painted wooden shelf she’d fastened above the clawfoot tub instead of “gutting the whole thing and putting in a modern bathroom that would give you some kind of return on investment.” Shedidn’tempty his hundreds of dollars’ worth of product—for, yes, thinning hair— into the toilet, or burn his new $330 Arcteryx hoodie and his hardcover biography of Steve Jobs in her wood stove, either. Shethoughtof it, but she didn’t do it. She pulled on her ancient Stanford sweats, because why the hell not, shoved everything into a paper bag, ran outside in her bare feet to set the bag on the curb, over her property line, and texted Craig that they were there. Proving once again, probably, that she wasn’t passionate.
On the other hand, she definitely hoped for a sidewalk-swooping neighbor. It had been all she could do not to write “FREE” on the bag. She’d have settled for a curious raccoon or even a freak thunderstorm. She was so tired of hearing about the genius of Steve Jobs. As far as she could tell, he’d been a narcissist, an obsessive, and quite possibly a psychopath, and she was kicking him to the curb.
The whole thing had possibly not been her most stellar public appearance in Sinful, and it might even cost her that district judge spot. Was she sorry, though? She couldn’t say. It had been like diving off the blocks and swimming for the medal. You didn’t have a choice. You had to do it.
Why are you thinking about this now?She stared at her reflection, set the perfume bottle on the dresser with care, put the cap on, and faced facts.
What if Craig was right?
If Beckett was disappointed, he couldn’t exactly make a discreet exit. He’d have to tell her, because Beckett was nothing if not honest, and that would be so incredibly awkward for him.
It wouldn’t make her shrivel up in shame, though, because she’d refuse to let it. She wasn’t going there again. She was a woman who looked life in the eye, and this was her life. She was thirty-eight years old. She had lines besidehereyes, too, and they weren’t nearly as sexy as Beckett’s. She gave too many orders, she tended to assume she knew the answer, and she might not seem passionate in bed.
She looked at herself in the mirror. No forgiving lighting, and no filters.
Trim waist. Broad shoulders. Possibly too many muscles, and no breasts to speak of. Non-blow-dried hair, and no makeup, because she’d have felt stupid. And a sweater that was almost as bad as her mom had described, but she’d put it on because it was warm, the windows were open, and she wasn’t dressing for a date. That was why she wasn’t wearing her first-date jeans or her cropped red first-date sweater, and had fuzzy socks on instead of her cowboy boots. Because This. Was. Not. A.Date.This was …
Pathetic.
When the knock came on the half-open door, she jumped.
27
FAIL ON THE FEMININITY FRONT
He rapped quietly a second time and called out, “Quinn?”
He’d waited for her, then waited some more. Then got tired of sitting there wondering. He didn’t believe in wondering, and when you lived with somebody? There was no room for wondering.
Another second, and the door opened the rest of the way. She stood there in her black turtleneck and her snug jeans and her strong, slim, pretty body and her ugly cardigan, looking straight at him. She hadn’t spent the time putting on makeup, though she’d used that scent, because she smelled delicious, inviting, and soft. Or call itmoredelicious, inviting, and soft.
Pity she wasn’t looking at him that way.
He said, “If you’ve changed your mind, say so. No need to hide.” He tried to make it neutral. He wasn’t sure he’d succeeded.
She didn’t answer straightaway, and he decided to say, “Look. We need to talk. I haven’t been able to work you out all week. I’m not a scary bloke. Just tell me what it is. If I need to get that Airbnb, I’ll do it, but I can’t bloody guess!” So, not too good on the “neutral” part.
She glared at him. Only word for it. “How are you not scary? You’re exactly scary! All … all tough and manly like that? Are you kidding? And what? Me? I have been completely professional. Completely casual. I’ve beenfriendly.That was the deal. You wanted a friend.”
“I wanted awhat?”He was staring back now. “Who said I wanted a friend?”
“Excuse me. You? Not having dated at all yet, because you’re still in love with your wife, and with Janey still being fragile, and, for that matter, Troy being even more fragile? You called me and explained! I remember, because I was right here. In my bathroom. Naked and dripping. It’s seared into my memory.”
“That’swhy you thought I was ringing you up? I did not say that. I never said that. I’m a bloody direct communicator. It’s my job!” His voice was rising a bit. He tried to pull himself back, but it wasn’t working.
