Page 33 of The Unraveling

He’s really, really hot. He’s not older older, but he’s probably in his forties. I think about how I’ve never slept with a man in his forties, and then wonder why my brain is going there.

“It sounds like you still love him,” he says, when I finish telling him the whole sorry tale. “But it sounds like he probably still loves you, too. I imagine he’ll be there when you go crawling back.”

I laugh. “Wow, rude.”

He gives a casual shrug. “Am I wrong?”

“No. I mean, you’re not wrong that I’ll go crawling back at some point. Probably. Whether or not he’ll still be there, I have no idea.”

“I’m sure he will.”

“But what about Blondie over there?” I ask.

He waves a hand. “Men are idiots. He probably just called up someone he had from his past and asked her to come round to distract himself from what he’s really feeling, which is misery over losing you.”

“I think I was pretty awful.”

“All women are awful at times,” he says. “So are all men. Love isn’t about that. Love is about being there anyway.”

“My, you’re sage,” I say. “Who knew. I thought you were just an asshole.”

I’m afraid this jab is too far, but he just smiles and says, “I deserve that, too.”

“So what about you?” I ask. “Who do you love?”

He tears a piece of bread from the hunk on his plate. “My wife.”

Something in me depresses. He’s not wearing a ring, so I had foolishly thought maybe he wasn’t married. But of course he is. He’s gorgeous and has an air of wealth I can’t help but notice.

I am my mother’s daughter.

“That’s nice,” I say.

“It should be,” he says. “We’re not in the best place these days.”

“No?”

The bar is close to empty now. Just an old man drinking solo at the end of the bar, a couple on a date in a far corner, and two girls outside on the patio with a dalmatian at their feet.

“She doesn’t love me anymore. She wants a divorce. I’m not surprised, it’s been a long time coming. We haven’t told anyone yet. Not her family or mine. Or the”—he gestures dismissively—“press.”

“The press?”

“They care about her, not me,” he clarifies. “But they’ll assume it’s my fault anyway. Which is fine.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“S’alright. I don’t know if I love her the way I want to love someone anyhow. We’ve been together a long time. I think it’s all habit at this point.”

“That’s depressing.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble finding someone new, when you want it.”

His gray eyes land on mine as he scans me, reading between the lines. I hadn’t meant to be so flirtatious, but I couldn’t help it.

I’ve had a little bit of wine, he’s beautiful, and the other option is wallowing in my devastation.

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