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“Olivia . . . I hate myself.”
The words—soft, fervent, and heartfelt—made it so much worse, and the tears she had been holding at bay for the last few minutes finally overflowed to forge scalding paths down her cheeks.
“Not as much as I hate you right now, Greyson,” she promised on a heated whisper. “Nowhere near as much as that.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“I can’t,” she panted, her hand going to her chest as she fought for breath, “I can’t breathe. How could you think such a vile, despicable thing? I mean, thinking I cheated was bad enough, but with Harris? With your own brother? I can’t comprehend the level of distrust and . . .” She couldn’t complete the thought. There were literally no words to describe how she felt right now.
“I didn’t want to believe it.”
“Oh, well, that makes it all better, then, doesn’t it?” She shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose in an attempt to ward off the headache that was starting to form.
“I was tearing myself apart, imagining . . . believing . . .”
“Stop.” She held up a hand to halt whatever horrible thing he’d been about to spew forth next. “I’d rather not have whatever the hell it was you’d imagined or believed imprinted in my brain. What I already have to deal with is bad enough.”
He sat quietly while she gathered herself, thankfully not offering up any further excuses.
“So why did you decide you were wrong about . . . about that?” she finally asked. “You didn’t have a paternity test, and you no longer think you’re infertile. Why is that?”
“Harris. He reminded me that he’d had mumps too. And the doctor had given him the same diagnosis. He pointed out that if I believed he was the father, then that meant I had to believe that the doctor was wrong. And it naturally follows that if the doctor could be wrong about him, then . . .” He shook his head, not needing to complete the sentence. But Libby was more horrified by the revelation that Harris had known about this all along.
“Oh my God, Harris knows about your disgusting suspicions? Why didn’t he tell me?” She wasn’t sure how she felt about Harris keeping this from her.
“You can’t blame him for that—he urged me to come clean. He felt that this would have to come from me. He . . . he felt the same way you do. I hurt him. I hurt you both so much, and I . . . well, there’s no coming back from this, is there?” He said the last with a bitter smile, his eyes falling to the envelope between them.
Libby dropped her palm onto the envelope, and she dragged it toward her.
“Nothing has changed,” she affirmed. “This merely reinforces the need for a divorce.” She laughed, the sound dark with bitterness and anger. “What’s that saying? ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure’? Well, proverbs exist for a reason, I suppose. Yet people just continue to make the same stupid mistakes over and over again.”
She picked the envelope up and slipped it into Clara’s nappy bag and then nearly laughed again. Right back where it had started. Those papers had been in that bag for so long before she’d finally handed them to him. It was kind of funny that they now found themselves tucked back in with the nappies.
She was focusing on silly little details to avoid thinking about what Greyson had just told her. She didn’t know why, but being accused of cheating with Harris felt like a bigger betrayal than his initial accusation. It was so beyond messed up . . . the level of distrust was much worse than she’d believed. And maybe she shouldn’t allow it to affect her so much, not when she had already made up her mind that their marriage was over. But this . . . there was no hope for an amicable relationship after this. They would be strangers raising a child together. And she had wanted more for them.
For Clara.
“I thought I was in love with you.” She blurted out the words before she could stop herself, and he raised his wretched gaze to hers. He looked completely desolate, but she couldn’t allow that to affect her. She wanted him to know this, wanted him to understand what he had destroyed with his distrust and his cruelty. “You wanted to know why I married you? That’s why. I’d always liked you. You know that. But after those two months, those crazy, happy whirlwind months . . . even though you still kept yourself apart from me, even though I knew you didn’t feel the same way, I was in love with you. I thought . . . perhaps . . . with time . . .”
