Page 13 of Best Kept Vows

“You just insulted our marriage and me, Lia. I can’t believe that your insecurities have pushed you so fucking low that you’d think I’d cheat on you.”

With that, he stormed off, slamming the guestroom door behind him. I stayed unmoving for a moment, trembling from head to toe. After a while, I slowly headed to the kitchen.

When I entered, the scent of the half-prepared meal hit me.

Anger surged anew, fierce and blinding.

How dare he? How dare he dismiss my feelings as though they meant nothing, as thoughImeant nothing?

If I was having doubts about him, wasn’t it his damn job to help me feel better? Oh, no,Mr. Arrogant I’m So Insultedjust walked the fuck away.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to go down on my knees and wail, grieve for a marriage that was over, and there was nothing I could do about it. Whether Sebastian was having an affair or not, one thing was clear—he wasn’t withmeanymore. And if he wasn’t, how did it matter who he was with? Marriage vows meant nothing if there was no marriage—regardless of the legalities.

I turned on the oven, finishing the honey-mustard pork tenderloin with baby carrots and potatoes I’d started earlier. I’d planned to have dinner ready by the time Sebastian got home, but since I didn’t know precisely when that would be—and didn’t feel like texting him—I’d completely forgotten about it until now.

When he came into the kitchen where we usually ate, leaving the formal dining room for…well,formalevents, I went about plating our food.

I could smell his shower gel, and his hair was still wet from the shower. He’d changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt. He looked likemySebastian, casual and at home, but this man, who called something significant that happened to me today asilly little ceremony,wasn’t mine. He was probably Jane’s.

“Would you like some wine?” I asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

He took our plates to the table. I opened a bottle of steel-cask unoaked chardonnay from Willamette that I’d recently bought from Ganem’s wine shop in the historic downtown a couple of days ago when I was planning our celebratory dinner.

I thought we’d go out for lunch, so it would be nice to have a meal at home, just Sebastian and me. Instead, we sat in strained silence, forks scraping porcelain, a lifetime of intimacy reduced to the awkwardness of two strangers forced to share an umbrella in a Georgia thunderstorm.

“This is very good, thank you, Lia.”

I hummed my acknowledgment instead of saying, “Where’s your phone, Sebastian?” because he usually had his eyes glued to it during the few times we managed to eat together.

I had so much bitterness lodged in my throat that I was sure I’d say words I’d regret later.

Sebastian exhaled heavily, and I heard his knife and fork clatter onto the plate. “Lia, baby?”

I looked at him.

“I’m sorry for losing my temper earlier,” he said coolly, formally, so it didn’t sound like an apology at all—because it wasn’t; these were mere words he was speaking to make himself feel righteous. “But asking me if I’m having an affair is insulting.”

There it was—the proof in the pudding, as they said.

He wasn’t apologizing. He was telling me I was wrong—wrong for how I felt, wrong for daring to suggest he might be having an affair. He wanted me to apologize, to beg forgiveness for bruising his ego. The gall. He acted like I had insulted him, all while casually invalidating every emotion I had, as if my hurt was just another inconvenience. Did he not realize how often he disrespected me? How each forgotten milestone was not just neglected—but was a quiet, cutting cruelty that he inflicted without a second thought?

Silly little ceremony!

I finished eating, which wasn’t difficult to do since I’d barely put any food on my plate. But there just wasn’t enough space in my stomach after being filled with rage and regret.

He set his knife and fork down on the plate he’d cleaned.Hehad no problem eating. My husband liked food, he liked my cooking, he always said so. But he was fine eating at the Olde Pink House today withthatwoman while I had waited and waited and waited until my eyes hurt for him to acknowledge my victory, my success….

“Tell me about this interview you have,” he demanded softly, unaware or perhaps uncaring of my inner turmoil. “Where is it?”

“Savannah Lace.”

“How did that come about?”

“Betsy Rhodes was at the graduation ceremony.” It was petty, but it felt good to see him raise his eyebrows.

“And?”

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