Page 19 of Last Chorus

When he doesn’t say anything else, I know it’s my cue to explain myself. But right now the only coherent thought in my head is that I hope Angie Irving and herso-called credible sources from last night are stricken with incurable rashes on their assholes.

I take a few sips of cold coffee, ignoring its bitterness, and try to come up with something to distract Clay. I need to buy myself some time to get my thoughts in order.

“I really loved that dress,” I finally say. “The one from the BBMAs.”

I wore the long, edgy black number against his wishes. He was pissed for days and has yet to overlook an opportunity to remind me of how ugly he thinks it was.

Sadly, he doesn’t take the bait.

“Don’t make me ask, Eva.”

As I set down my mug, I remind myself to stick to general facts and avoid sounding defensive.

“He walked in uninvited. We had a brief conversation about Emma before I questioned his motives for speaking to me. He reassured me that he has no romantic interest in me and was merely taking a break from the party. He left. You came in a few minutes later.”

There’s a weighted pause. “Look at me.”

Forcing myself to remain relaxed, I shift my gaze to his face. Even expecting the coldness in his eyes, it still shocks me. They used to be warm all the time.

“Is that all?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He frowns at me for another moment, then looks across the backyard. “Maybe that’s the spin. Childhood friends catching up.” Nodding to himself, he adds decisively, “If I can’t figure out a faster fix, at least we have The Golden Globes next weekend. I’ll ask Anita to find out who’s working the carpet and prep some questions for them. We’ll rehearse your responses.”

I have zero interest in attending The Golden Globes, in being photographed and dissected for consumption by the masses, but there’s no point trying to get out of it. Clay’s social standing, cultivated meticulously over a decade, means he’s invited absolutely everywhere. Last week, he was invited to a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a butcher shop. So I guess I should be grateful he’s selective about our appearances.

I make a noncommittal noise and fiddle with my robe, pulling the fabric over my knees.

Another heavy sigh floats over me. “You should have told me last night.” His voice is soft now, thick with hurt that makes my blood instantly boil.

Before I can stomp the impulse, I retort, “I was distracted by the taste of someone else’s lip gloss during our New Year’s Eve kiss.”

We both go preternaturally still.

I can’t believe I said that.

Fingers grip my chin, lifting and turning my face. His eyes scan mine. “It was a forgettable mistake.”

His version of an apology, as well as a reminder of how discreet he is normally. Like the fact he doesn’t routinely wave his infidelities in my face means I don’t have a right to be offended.

To him, our dynamic is normal. He’s merely repeating patterns he witnessed between his parents when he was a child and again between his father and stepmother during his teens. Even among his colleagues and friends, I don’t know of a single relationship that’s monogamous.

There have been times recently that I’ve even wondered if what I saw growing up, what I’ve always wanted for myself, is nothing more than a fantasy. An aberration of modern love.

Clay’s grip on my chin tightens. “Maybe if you actually enjoyed sex, I wouldn’t need to find relief elsewhere. Have you considered that?”

The fire inside me burns brighter. The flame is black, though. Toxic. Biting my tongue so hard I taste copper, I roughly pull my chin from his hold and scoot my chair back. I stand and gather my plate and mug.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I say as I move past him.

“Do we need to discuss this further?” he asks sharply.

What I hear instead is what he really means: do I need to be reminded of how well he takes care of me?

I shake my head, my shoulder blades squeezing together as he follows me inside. I set my dishes beside the sink, knowing that if I rinse them and put them in the dishwasher, it will set him off. There’s no way I can handle one of his rants right now.

As I walk toward the hallway, he asks, “Did you take a sleeping pill last night?”

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