Page 46 of I Almost Do

I only catch up to Clarissa before she hails a cab because I virtually sprint through the lobby. When I reach her, I ask, “Are you okay?”

She doesn’t say a single word.

“Clarissa, please. What happened?”

I put my arm around her waist, but she jerks away, stiff as a board. I back off in confusion, dropping my arm. "You're not leaving here separately from me in a cab. It's not safe."

She's stiff but looks around at the milling crowd and paparazzi, inclining her head and faking a smile.

“What did Lyndsay say to you?"

She stares straight ahead. "Do you sit around and discuss how immature I am with Rebecca?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Is that what Lyndsay said? You know she literally makes shit up out of thin air.”

“I’m not ridiculous. And I am not too young to be a good wife.”

“I didn’t say you were. Youarea good wife. And there’s no point in being sensitive about your age. It is what it is.”

She keeps the fake smile pasted on for the photographers. "God, you're either dense or deliberately provoking me," she says.

Our driver pulls up, and I yank open the door to the back seat. Clarissa clambers in, and when I move to help with her skirts, she grabs them and flicks them out of the way herself.

“For the record, I’m not sensitive about my age,” she says when I climb in beside her. “I’m not wishing my life away or wishing I could just wake up older. I’m talking about the way Rebecca was deliberately reinforcing the narrative that I’m your dependent while pointing out that it’s the two of you who have things in common with me on the outside.”

She nods at the hotel behind us. “She made it clear that you and she are teammates while I’m not even on the field. And if you tell me you don’t see that she was trying to make me wonder if the two of you are fucking, then I don’t believe you.”

“Just what are you accusing me of?” I bite out.

“I don’t think you’re sleeping with her, James. But I don’t appreciate your attitude.”

“My attitude? Are you fucking kidding me? You started acting like a brat before Rebecca even opened her mouth.”

The look she gives me is scathing. "Don’t call me a brat unless you want to be called an asshole.”

She lets that sink in, then says, “I overheard her say some things at our wedding. It was obvious she knew more about our arrangement than I did at the time.”

"It's not an arrangement. It's a marriage,” I snap. “She had no business talking about us. But she didn’tknowa damn thing. She was guessing. Just the same as everybody else. I’ve never discussed the private details of our marriage with anyone but you or your father. Which is not something you can say, is it?"

Clarissa ignores my question and holds up her hand, ticking items off on her fingers. “She knew my father was leaving you his shares. She knows we’re not living together, and she’s pretty damn sure we’re not sleeping together. She knows my schedule. She’s the one ordering my presents.” She drops her hand and glares at me. “She’s probably the one who deposits money into my bank account every week, all while reminding you she paid myallowance.”

"Ichoose your gifts. How would my assistant even know what you like? And I pay your allowance, Clarissa.Me. It takes two seconds on my phone. She knows your schedule because it's on my calendar."

"It's not an allowance."

I glance toward the front of the car to double-check the privacy screen is up because Clarissa has gotten loud.

"Call it whatever you want. I don't care."

"Words matter, James. That language infantilizes me."

"Spare me the psychobabble. Do me a favor and stay off Reddit," I snap back.

She makes a sound of frustrated rage between clenched teeth. Half growl, half squeal. "It's not an allowance. It's money for cost-of-living expenses."

I lean back and spread my hands in a classic "I rest my case" gesture. "Congratulations, you just gave a textbook definition of 'allowance.'"

"I wouldn't need you to send me an allowance if my father had allowed me to manage my own trust."

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