Page 67 of You Will Never Be Me

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It’s nearly midnight when Bencomes home, reeking of cheap beer and sweat. I get up from the couch and hurry to the kitchen, where I pour him a glass of cold water.

“Here.”

He takes it from me and glugs it down sloppily, rivulets of water pouring down the sides of his mouth. When he’s done, he gives me a wary look and mumbles, “Thanks,” before plopping down onto one of the counter stools.

“Um, I’m not sure if you saw, but there’s been a not-so-great development—”

“I saw. I was at the bar when some punks started shouting at me, asking me if I killed her.”

“Oh my god.” This whole case is quickly spiraling out of control. “I’m sorry, Ben.”

He grunts and peers up at me. “I didn’t do it, you know.”

I nod. I want to tell him I know, but then I wonder if, in the bitter, drunk state he’s in, he’ll use that against me and demand to know how I know that he didn’t kill her. Instead, I say, “I trust you.”

He breaks eye contact, looking away guiltily.

“So Helena says that it would be good if you could make a video with me. Tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep.”

“What? Why? Nobody wants to hear from me.”

“She said it’s really important to show that we’re a united front.”

“What am I supposed to say?” he demands, like I’m asking for the world when all I need is a one-minute video. It’s a struggle to keep my temper in check.

“Um, she thinks it would be a good idea if we told everyone that we’re in an open relationship.”

Ben gapes at me like I’ve just asked him to stab his own mother.

“It’ll show that I’m less likely to have gotten jealous about your affair with Meredith, because I’m okay with you being with other women.”

“Wh-what the fuck, Aspen?” he says. “First of all, we are not in an open relationship. And second of all, even if we were, I’m not going to tell the whole world about it. What’s everyone going to think? I’ll be fired from the agency. My whole family would disown me.Myreputation would be ruined.”

Anger overwhelms me. My asshole of a husband, who’s always strived to keep me small, who’s always ready with cutting remarks. My husband who never once showed me appreciation for everything I’ve done for this family. Who doesn’t seem to be able to understand what’s at stake, even when it’s staring him right in the face. I have three little kids to look after, and a man-child is the last thing I want to be spending time on. “Oh, okay, never mind then,” I hiss. “We’ll just tell everyone that you have a long history of cheating on me, and each time, I’ve just looked the other way. Would that be more accepta—” The rest of the word ends in a gasp as Ben grabs my arms in a merciless grip and shoves me against the kitchen island. My lower back slams intothe overhang, and pain shoots up and down my spine. It feels like my spine’s just been snapped in two. The pain is so bad that I don’t even scream out loud—I can’t; the breath’s been knocked out of me and only an agonized gurgle comes out.

Ben’s face is right up against mine, our noses grazing. His teeth are bared, and everything inside me is telling me that this is it. This is how I die. “Don’t be a fucking bitch, Aspen,” he growls. “All these years, there’s never been any room for me in your life. First, it was the Mer and Aspen show. Then, when you decided you got too big for her, it became the All Aspen show. It’s always been about you. You love the attention so much, you can deal with all of this shit yourself. This mess is yours. Do not drag me and the kids into it. Just—” He shakes me, once, and this time, I do cry out. “Don’t,” he says with finality. Then he pushes me away, and I slide down to the floor in a crumpled heap.

I’m not sure if what I’m doing counts as crying. Tears are rolling down my face, but I’m not sobbing, because it’s too painful to sob. I just lie there, gasping for breath until the fire in my back recedes, then I curl up into a ball, and that’s when I do cry. For some ridiculous reason, what I’m feeling right now is shame and guilt. A very significant part of me is ashamed for pushing Ben into doing this. I was the one who goaded him, who kept pressing even after he’d said he didn’t want to shoot a video with me. I did this. It’s all my fault. But even as I think that, I know how messed up the thought is. Hot on the heels of the guilt is fury. How dare he lay his hands on me? How dare he—

He’s right. It sinks in with awful clarity. Ben is right. All these years it’s always been my show. There has never been any room for him. Not for clinger-on Ben. He’s like the appendix in our lives, and now he’s infected, and it’s clear what I need to do.

I stay on the kitchen floor until weak morning light streams in through the windows and the birds begin to chirp. Slowly, gingerly, wincing at every move, I uncurl. My back spasms with electricity, and my breath comes in and out in little whimpers. I push myself up and stagger to the sink where I drink straight from the tap. The water revives me a little, just enough to lurch to the bathroom, where I open the medicine cabinet and take two Tylenols. I lean over the sink and stare into the mirror.

The woman who stands before me looks utterly broken. Pale, with dark circles under her eyes, and a tremor in her arms, like they can’t bear the weight of her upper body. I blink slowly. Ben did this to me. My husband, who fell in love with me because he saw me as a helpless, young, naive thing. A thing to spoil and protect. My husband, who, when I stopped being a thing and started coming into my own person, became embittered and small. My husband, who’s spent the last few years of our marriage belittling me, reminding me at every turn of how empty-headed I am. How frivolous my job is. Scoffing every time I call my job a “career.” Refusing to celebrate any of my milestones. My husband, who has always underestimated me.

It’s easy, I suppose, to underestimate influencers. We’re often minimized as these shallow, featherbrained creatures. What people fail to see is how cutthroat we have to be in order to make it in the industry. We have to think outside the box to come up with creative content. And not just one or two times but every fucking day, multiple times a day, we have to scour our brains and extract creativity from them. We need to be disciplined. We need to be organized. And above all, we need to be charismatic.

I spread my mouth into a smile. The Tylenol is beginning to kick in, numbing the pain in my back slightly. I straighten upslowly, wincing, running my hands up and down my spine. Nothing’s broken. No slipped discs. I square my shoulders and lift my chin. My smile, previously looking more like a grimace, turns into a real one.

My husband has just made the worst mistake of his life.

30

Liv’s face is a picturewhen she opens her door to find me and the girls standing on her front porch. “Oh my—” she squeaks. Then she lowers her voice. “What are you doing here?”

“We didn’t have anywhere else to go,” I whisper back with just the right amount of fear and vulnerability in my voice to incite pity.

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