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“Ines,” Mark cuts her off. “Thank you, but I’m taking my wife home. Now.” He looks at me and takes the cup out of my hand and places it on the counter. I can see in his eyes that he’s debating carrying me so I start moving on my own.
“Thanks, Mamá, I’ll FaceTime you and Mia.” I say over my shoulder. My father meets us in the entryway. He hands me my phone with a complaint about Mia texting too much. I shudder when I take it, remembering the video and the lies. All the lies.
I make a beeline for Ric’s car.Almost done, almost out of this.
In the car, I lay my head back and watch out the window. Mark fumes into his phone beside me. He types messages and speaks to his assistant and publicist, answering questions with as little words as possible. After a while, he curses under his breath and takes my hand.
I look at our linked fingers. A pretty rare sight, especially in private. He kisses the back of my hand and continues to hold it with one hand as he gets back to work on his phone in the other. It’s nice, but it’s…just…not enough. I don’t think anything will be enough. I think we’re done. Just like he wanted.
•••••
“Maldición. Sigues siendo la mujer más hermosa que he visto en mi vida.” Damn. Still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
I smile a small smile at him. He’s perfect in his tux, standing there waiting for me like he just walked in from a photoshoot. His pin is in place on his lapel.
I look closer at it. “Should I wave at him?”
“You can, but he won’t see it until later. No recon tonight because no one too interesting will be at this dinner. No contacts, no earpiece. I’ll have them in my jacket if I need them, but it should just be boring low-level politicians.”
I inhale and nod, relieved but still shaky. I keep having tremors run through me, of grief or shock, or both.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” He puts his hands on my upper arms. I’m wearing a black dress with a turtleneck collar and long sleeves to cover everything, but the dress is backless with a flouncy high-low skirt to keep it from feeling too matronly. “Are you really okay?”
“Okay?” I pull out of his grip and step back. “Mark, how could I possibly be okay? Nothing is okay!”
“It is, though. Try and believe me. Your uncle bought the lies we sold him. The Italians are in play. You gave us a huge piece of intel we’d been missing. And now we move on. Really.”
“Well, tell that to my brain which is throbbing, my heart which now has a weird tremor and my body that won’t stop shaking!”
He’s around me before I can finish the sentence, holding me tight. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I know.” I let him hold me up for a minute. I breathe and close my eyes and just rest before we have to go out and don our fake smiles. But then his hands start to move over my back, slowly caressing over all my exposed skin.
He pulls back and looks at me, studying. He wants to know if the dress is for him. He wants to kiss me…and maybe more. But is it real affection or just placation so I keep going along with what he needs from me? What his boss needs? I don’t know what I want now. So I have to blurt something out.
“This dress was the only option that covered my bandages.”
“Hm.” He pushes a lock of hair from my face. “We won’t stay long. We just need to make an appearance to back up what I said at that press conference earlier.” He takes me by the hand and leads me out. He holds my hand until we arrive at the museum for the gala. I struggle not to stare at our linked hands through the whole drive.
“Showtime,” I mutter when we stop. I am surprised by my own bitterness. But I think if there’s any time I can give myself a pass, it’s this crazy shitshow of a week.
“We’ll bid, we’ll eat, we’ll leave.” He says.
He keeps his promise. We head straight to the auction table so he can write an obscene amount of money on a card for a painting. From there, he tries to take us straight to our table, but we’re stopped at least four times.
Here, my husband is like…like a beacon. All these people are moths, drawn to him. He’s so big, not just tall but he holds so much, and all these people seem so small beside him. Needy, greedy, pathetic, really.
We smile and nod and make the same small talk we’ve made for months. Mark looks at me often, like he’s checking to make sure I’m still standing. Still with him.
We eat and listen to the event organizer drone on. The announcements are made about who won what, and Mark won the painting. More smiling and clapping. My whole body is exhausted, but my fake face most of all. Finally, dinner is over.
Mark does his best, but we’re stopped yet again. Another old man in a navy suit. Another hand shake. More fake banter, sucking up, jokes. I can’t smile anymore.
“So nice to meet you,” I say.
“Oh darlin’, you are much too pretty to be married to this here snake, or is it snake oil salesman?” The old man says.
“Gene, you wound me. I’m one of the good ones.” Mark shrugs him off.
