Rebound: Chapter 3

My husband is, to use a technical term, hotter than a solar flare. He’s tall and broad-shouldered and in terrific shape, his dark hair and beard perfectly well-groomed. He dresses impeccably and has a big smile that can melt a woman’s heart at twenty paces and her underwear at ten. He is smooth, sophisticated, and stylishly put together—the very definition of high-society sex appeal.

Despite all that surface charm, it’s actually his eyes that do it for me. They always have, ever since the first day we met. An unusual shade of deep gray, Elijah’s eyes have a touch of the wild to them that is a world away from business meetings and boardrooms. When he’s annoyed or just plain pissed, they shine with a hint of ferocity that never fails to make my heart beat faster. And as he is usually annoyed or just plain pissed when I’m nearby, that tends to happen way too often for comfort. My poor heart becomes quite exhausted by it all.

I’m avoiding meeting his gaze for exactly that reason. I’ve pushed and prodded and provoked, and I’ve gotten a sick thrill out of unbalancing him. Was it worth it? I glance at him from beneath my lashes and decide that it wasn’t. He doesn’t even look angry anymore. His whole face lit up with his smile when he watched Elodie walk down the aisle, genuine warmth infused in his expression. Against all odds, he remains a romantic. Now, though, he looks tense and drained, and that’s all thanks to yours truly. I really am the gift that keeps on giving.

He doesn’t deserve this. I don’t deserve this. Yet neither of us seems to know how to fix it nor has the guts to walk away. It’s like we’re locked in this endless cycle of hell.

We are sitting together at the reception, although “together” might be a stretch. We are in close physical proximity, but as ever, the distance between us is vast and bleak. I can’t even remember the last time either of us tried to cross that void. Him moving into his own bedroom six months ago was the final nail in that coffin, taking away the last scrap of intimacy between us. Not that a lot happened in our shared bed—but at least we were in the same space. At least some form of intimacy was possible. Now, we lead increasingly separate lives, and it’s only at events like this that we’re forced to share the same air.

A waiter approaches, smiling nervously over his big silver tray. “Wine, madam?” he asks. The poor kid looks terrified.

“Yes, please,” I reply, and his hand shakes as he passes me the glass. “First day?”

“Um, yeah.” He offers a sheepish grin. “That obvious?”

“Not at all. Lucky guess. You’re doing great—and don’t worry, it’ll get easier. Plus, before long everyone will be so drunk they won’t care anyway.”

A flicker of surprise dances across Elijah’s face as the boy leaves.

“What? I can’t be nice?”

“Not in my experience, no,” he says, before going back to his phone. He’s been glued to the damn thing since the reception started, and I can’t say that I blame him. Maybe he’s messaging one of those mistresses I accused him of having earlier—and again, if he were, I couldn’t blame him. The unrestrained glee and optimism inherent to weddings coupled with the conversation in the car have caused me to be an even bigger bitch than usual. Yet again, his family has caused a rift between us—this time without even being present. I wish I could feel as neutral on the inside as I look on the outside, but I can’t. Pain and rejection are like a plague of locusts, landing on my exposed nerves and devouring me whole.

I sip my wine and tap my toes along to the music. The swing band version of “No Diggity” is working oddly well. We used to jam to this song at parties in college, singing along with our friends as we danced around in a big drunken circle. That was a million years ago, but I wonder if he remembers too. If he does, there’s no sign of it on his face. No sign of much on his face at all. He has gone to ground, switched off. Left the field of play.

With my expression carefully schooled in my practiced wedding smile, I wave to people I know and have brief conversations with anyone who stops by our table. I’m playing my role to perfection. That is what is expected, and on this occasion, it’s also what is right—it wouldn’t be fair to drag poor Elodie down with my bitterness on the happiest day of her life. At least the happiest day of her life until a few years down the line when her pals organize the traditional male stripper–strewn divorce party. Ha. Thoughts like that are exactly why I have to pretend.

Elijah has barely touched his drink and hasn’t eaten. I notice these things because I notice everything about him, but I don’t comment. He’s a grown man, and I am very much not his mother. His tie is tugged down a little and his long fingers are flying over the phone keyboard. Crap, what if he actually is messaging another woman? I didn’t mean it when I told him to go play with someone else. The thought of it alone is enough to break me, even if I would never let him see that.

I briefly wonder what would happen if I leaned over and took that phone from his grip. If I tangled my hands in his thick hair, looked up into his eyes, and invited him in. Would he welcome it? Would he pull me onto his lap and kiss me the way he used to, all possessive tongue and hot lips and big hands roaming my body? Or would he be horrified and push me away before returning to his phone?

It doesn’t matter. I’ll never do any such thing. The whole idea is ludicrous. I’m not a child anymore, and I gave up on silly dreams a long time ago.

“I’m just messaging Mason about work,” he says, as though sensing my scrutiny. “They’ve landed in London.”

Ah, Mason. Of course it’s not another woman. It’s his little brother, who is admittedly a lot more fun than Nathan. Too bad he hates me just as much.

I let out a laugh, the kind that anyone who overheard would find pleasant and lighthearted and perfectly suited to the occasion. “Darling, you could be talking to Margot Robbie about playing strip poker in a hot tub for all I care. Surely you know by now that I don’t care one single iota?” I say all of this in a gentle and amused tone, and his shoulders stiffen in response. Why do I poke so hard? Ah, that’s why, I think as fury flashes in those gorgeous gray eyes once more. For a mere moment, I feel alive at the proof that there’s still something between us—even if that something is only anger.

“Right. Message received and understood,” he says, returning my oh-so-fake beam. “Feel free to plan your own poker night with George Clooney.”

“George is a very happily married man, honey. Don’t you remember the wedding? I suppose I could give Channing a call, though.”

I slowly stroke the stem of my wine glass as I speak, and his eyes go to my fingers, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. A little thrill runs through me. He might hate my guts, but he still wants me. That’s got to count for something.

He drags his gaze away from the glass, away from my fingers, and back to his phone. “Go for it, babe. Whatever floats your boat.” He shrugs, Mr. Nonchalant. “I’m sure one of us has his number somewhere.”

I’m about to respond when Elodie, the blushing bride herself, joins us at the table. Her cheeks are carrying a pretty flush, and her updo is charmingly disheveled after a round of “No Diggity” on the dance floor.

Both Elijah and I smile, for once genuinely. We’ve known Elodie since she was ten, and it really is nice to see her so joyful. I feel guilty for even imagining her divorce party.

“Has anybody mentioned how beautiful you look today, Elodie?” Elijah says warmly.

“Oh, a few people, which is really nice,” she replies giddily. “I just wanted to come over and thank you both for being here, and for the generous gift. I … We … We’re both very grateful!”

Elijah doesn’t let on, but he has no clue what we got them. That falls firmly within my wifely remit—I leave him to run his intergalactic business affairs, and I deal with the charity lunches, the social calendar, the parties, the house, and of course, the wedding gifts. I could torture him a little here, and normally I’d enjoy that, but it would be unkind to Elodie. Plus, I think I’ve hit my quota of Elijah-baiting for the day.

“You’re very welcome, darling,” I say, patting her hand. “And I hope you have a wonderful time. Every marriage should start with a grand adventure.”

“Well, I think a private jet flying us to our very own Caribbean island for a week definitely counts as that. It’s an amazing honeymoon, and Mitch and I are very much looking forward to it.” She blushes and giggles, and it is beyond sweet. So young. So naive. I may be bitter and cynical about my own life, but I truly do wish them all the best. There are happy couples in the world, and while I don’t personally know many of them, I sincerely hope that Elodie and Mitch remain one of the few.

I watched Elijah’s face as she mentioned our gift, and his eyebrows raised maybe a millimeter. His poker face is nearly as good as mine. Not that he minds—I know better than that. He is many things, my darling husband, but tight-fisted he is not. He grew up surrounded by tremendous wealth and privilege, but he’s aware of that and doesn’t take it for granted. My whole life, I have mixed with the one percent, and many of them are god-awful assholes about their cash. Elijah? He’d happily hand over his last dime if he felt it was the right thing to do. Luckily, it’s unlikely to ever come to that considering he’s built Jamestech into even more of a behemoth than it was before he took over from Dalton. If money really could buy happiness, he’d be permanently swinging from a rainbow while singing show tunes.

“Have a fabulous time, Elodie,” he says, smiling at her, his gray eyes shining. Her blush deepens, and I realize she has a crush on him—or at least she did at some stage in her life. And why wouldn’t she? He’s an older man with model good looks. She probably fell in love with him when she was twelve. “I think you and Mitch are going to be very happy together. I can feel it in my bones,” he adds. “And my bones are never wrong.”

“Gosh, I hope so,” she gushes, looking at the two of us. “If we’re even a fraction as happy as you guys, that’ll do for me. How long have you been together?”

I briefly wonder if he might accidentally bark out “too fucking long,” but he’s nearly as good at this performance as I am. “We’ve been a couple for twenty-one years, and married for eighteen,” he says. “And every single day with Amber has been incredibly … special.”

I bite back a laugh. Special—what a fantastically ambiguous word. It could accurately be used to describe anything from eternal love through to a nuclear holocaust, taking in Labrador puppies and serial killers who dress up as clowns along the way. Special!

“What’s your secret?” Elodie apparently missed the pause and caught no double-meaning in the word.

My gaze meets Elijah’s, and we give our well-rehearsed answer. “Give and take,” we both say, for once perfectly in sync.

I don’t let the sorrow that floods me show on my face. We were in love once, this man and I. We shared everything, keeping no secrets from one another, our lives woven together like the threads of a tapestry. He was my soulmate, my best friend, my lover. Our passion lit up my heart and made me shine from the inside out.

Now, there’s only one thing that Elijah and I seem to do well together.

Lie.