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What?
My heart cracked, but it only made me angrier. “Waiting for an excuse?” I said in disbelief. “You had to work on me formonthsto get me to agree to sleep with someone else, and you’re going to accuse me like that? Maybe you were just waiting for an excuse to leave me!”
I wanted to say ‘fuck you’ and dramatically hang up. Maybe he’d fly here and apologize. It would serve him right to need to grovel a little after jerking me around with his mixed messages.
But…part of me worried he wouldn’t show up.
Successful businessmen like my husband didn’t admit they were wrong often, and groveling wasn’t something he did.
“That’s not how ethical kink works,” he grumbled.
“No, it isn’t.”
We stared at each other.
“I’m sorry.”
I waited for more, but apparently that was it. Was that seriously all he was going to say?
His nostrils flared, and for a moment I thought he was going to start yelling. He wasn’t a man who often raised his voice, but my flight-or-fawn instincts were still strong years after escaping my parents’ house.
He swallowed and ran his thumbs impatiently under his reddened eyes. Had he been crying? I’d never seen him cry—not even when we were kids. Not even when he’d ended up in foster care.
“I’m sorry I’m being a jealous asshole when I promised I wouldn’t be.”
“Did you ignore my messages on purpose?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“Was it some kind of loyalty test?”
“No. I couldn’t decide what to say.”
“So, you left me to deal with it by myself.”
“It was a shitty thing for me to do.”
“You do realize this was your idea, right? I didn’t want to go down this road with you. Whatever. If you want a divorce, tell me,” I said, choking out the words. I’d wondered all along if that was the plan, but I’d been too afraid to say so. “You don’t need an excuse to leave me, if that’s what this was. I’ll live.”
“Just like that? You bang some other guy a couple of times and suddenly you can live without me?” His lips pressed into a firm line.
“It’s not what I want, but I’m not playing stupid games with you. I’m not interested in having to guess what the rules are, never knowing if I’m about to step on a landmine. I’m not interested in reliving my fucking childhood.”
“It wasn’t a game. You’re not a game to me.”
“Okay,” I said, relaxing slightly. “So, if you have a problem with your own kinks, you’re going to need to work them out. Maybe you can talk them through with a therapist.”
He stiffened.
“Therapy can be a good thing. It’s not an insult.”
“If I never speak to a social worker again, it’ll be too soon.” He cleared his throat. “Is there anything else I should know about?”
I racked my brain, then remembered my omission. “The night of the convention, he left his pinky ring in my coat pocket on his way out. I found it the next day. I didn’t tell you because I thought it might upset you.”
“Do you wear it?”
“No! I was going to throw it out, but it seemed wasteful. It looks like a real ruby.”
