Rebound: Chapter 4

I wait for a respectable amount of time before I consider making a run for it. Or, in these heels, making a brisk walk for it. Elijah won’t even notice—he’s deeply embedded in conversation with his assistant, Luisa, and Harper. They have their heads bent together over a table, probably sketching out their next takeover on a napkin. They’re cut from the same cloth, and for all three of them, work is paramount—the rest is filler.

Harper has enjoyed his big day as the doting father, but if I know him—and I do know him quite well—he is now relieved to be discussing Jamestech. Elijah bluffed the devoted-husband routine for hours before he gave in to the siren call, and Luisa has—no, actually, Luisa never tries to be anything she isn’t. She wore a tailored business suit to the wedding and has had earbuds in all day.

The small group looks engaged and focused, Luisa gesticulating as she speaks. It’s clear from watching her that she’s one of those people who talks with her hands. Other guests are dancing and drinking, but these three are getting their kicks in a different way. Nothing sets their pulses racing quite like the thrill of the big deal—the lunge, cut, and parry of the ruthless world they inhabit.

My father was exactly the same. Perhaps it should come as no surprise that I found myself married to a man who would choose the Dow Jones over date night. I barely saw my dad as a child, and he remains a distant figure. That’s partly because I was whisked away to boarding school pretty much as soon as I was on solids and partly because he literally lived in the office. He actually had a bed in there. My mom coped the best way she knew how—by losing herself in a bottle of gin a day and, ever the cliché, by fucking the pool boy. In comparison, I’m a roaring success—I only drink wine, and we don’t have a pool boy.

From my spot at the bar, I continue watching Elijah, letting my mind wander as I pretend to be interested in the orthopedic specialist sitting next to me. At the start, I thought he might entertain me with juicy stories of A-listers given his reputation as “surgeon to the stars,” but all I’ve gotten so far is a fifteen-minute lecture about hip-replacement procedures. As I nod and smile at all the right places, I’m far more interested in my husband. My eyes are constantly drawn to him no matter how much I fight it. It’s the same kind of feeling I get after eating that second slice of chocolate cake—knowing I’ll regret it later but eating it anyway.

He wasn’t always like this. When we met in college, Elijah was hardworking and ambitious but also a huge amount of fun. The kind of guy who’d be the first to do a keg stand at a party, but only after he attended all his lectures and a daily study session at the library. After we got married, he remained attentive and loving, and being the apple of his eye made me feel like the luckiest woman on earth. I felt like I was his number one priority in life despite the demands that were placed on him from an early age. Coming from money doesn’t equal an easy life, and with Dalton as his dad, he knew from the start that he had big boots to fill. He was the oldest son—the heir—and he carried a lot of expectation on those wide shoulders.

He also always took his job as big brother to his four siblings seriously, especially after their mom Verona died. He tried to soak up their pain, even while he was drowning in his own.

“Oh, really? How amazing,” I say, responding to some brain-numbing detail about titanium rods.

Elijah points at something on Luisa’s tablet, and the conversation between the three of them grows more animated. His work is everything to him now, that and his family. His blood family. Because slowly, as the years slipped past like thieves in the night, robbing us of so much time, I was edged out of my position as the number one priority in his life. Or more accurately, I saved him the trouble and removed myself from his list altogether.

What we have now is a social contract, not a marriage, and the gravity of that arrangement is dragging me under tonight. I’m sinking in a sea of pain and trying to swim, but I’m weighed down with chains of regret. Even as I sit here, calmly chatting and being sociable, doing everything I’m supposed to do, I’m screaming on the inside. Inside, I am panicking, horrified at being trapped inside what my life has become. I’m not sure I can stand even one more minute of this. Unsure I can fake one more smile, make one more empty comment, or have one more meaningless exchange with people I barely know and have no interest in knowing. I need to leave before something terrible happens—like I burst into tears in public. Heaven forbid the world—or even worse, my husband—should witness such weakness.

It’s barely nine p.m. Leaving this early will be noticeable, so I may need to start faking the signs of a socially acceptable ailment. Migraines are always good. I let my hand flutter up to my forehead and wait for my companion to ask me if I’m feeling okay. He’s a doctor—he might come in handy after all. Sadly, he’s too engrossed in the sound of his own voice to notice. My eyes narrow slightly, and I consider collapsing at his feet to test exactly how bad his powers of observation are.

“Amber,” says someone from behind me. “Can I steal you for a moment?”

I turn around to see Martha Kemp, one of my alleged friends and co-chair of several charity committees. No, she is a friend—the alleged part is me being cynical. We are as close as our lives and personalities allow, which is to say that we’re never any closer than an air kiss on the cheek. I apologize graciously to Dr. Dud and accompany Martha to a nearby table.

“I was worried you might fall asleep,” she whispers, sliding her too-thin body into a chair. Her husband Freddie is a well-known hound dog, and she is on an eternal quest to keep his interest. She hasn’t eaten a carb in over a decade and has a face that is more filler than flesh. None of it has worked; Freddie is as badly behaved as ever—because the problem obviously lies with him and not with her. There are rumors that he has a cocaine problem, which likely only adds to his manic ways. I’d advise her to leave him, but frankly I’m not in a position to counsel anybody about the state of their relationship.

Whatever goes on in her personal life, though, Martha possesses a deeply bitchy sense of humor that I find scandalously amusing. It makes the endless round of charity events and prissy lunch parties a lot more fun.

“I got stuck with him earlier,” she continues, topping up my glass. “He lost me at titanium rods.”

“He talked to you about titanium rods too? Damn. Now I feel so cheap. Thanks for the rescue. He is one dull motherfucker.” I wink at her, and she giggles.

“An absolute ball bag, but with less hair.”

I laugh at that one, because the ball bag in question is indeed bald as a coot. “I was about to have a migraine,” I say, sipping a little more wine in the hope that I finally start to feel drunk. “In fact, I think I still might.”

“Are you sure?” Martha asks. “I mean, of course you could have a migraine—I will attest to the fact that you were looking peaky to anyone who asks—but … You could also stay. We could dance and flirt with the cute waiters who look like Abercrombie & Fitch models and complain about our tediously privileged lives.”

There’s a flash of something desperate in her eyes, and I consider saying yes. Maybe I can stick this out for another couple of hours. What else have I got to do, anyway? If I go home, I’ll just sit and drink more while I watch TV and feel sorry for myself. Then I’ll go to my perfectly lovely bedroom and lie awake wondering where Elijah is, who he’s with, and what he’s doing. By the time I hear the car pull up outside, I’ll be furious and sad and too proud to show any of it. I’ll finally fall asleep at five a.m. with eyes as red as a baboon’s ass. It’s not a great option.

I tap my nails against the side of my glass and look over at my husband. Harper’s granddaughter has crawled up onto Elijah’s lap, her pretty pink dress frothing over his legs. She’s playing a game—tugging at his beard with pudgy fingers. Libby is three years old, a gorgeous blond-haired barrel of fun, and her dimpled cheeks crease from laughter as he pretends to cry. She tugs, he boo-hoos. She stops, he grins. On repeat. He’s an absolute natural with kids. When Harper’s older daughter Shannon comes to retrieve her, it’s obvious how reluctant he is to hand her back. He says something to Shannon that makes her laugh, then gives Libby one last hug before her mom carries her away. As he waves goodbye, there’s a wistful look in his eyes. I’ve seen that look before, and as ever, it feels like a fist slamming into my solar plexus.

Elijah should have that. He should be a dad—he’d be so damn good at it. He deserves to have a house full of kids running around, his own toddlers tugging his beard. He should be playing ball in the park and attending his own child’s wedding one day. He should have it all—everything that I will never be able to give him. Everything he so desperately wants, no matter how hard he pretends he doesn’t.

“Darling,” I say to Martha, turning my full attention back to her, “I actually do feel a little off-color. Not even a lie, I swear. I’m going to make my excuses and leave, but we must do lunch very soon, yes? Just the two of us.”

She looks disappointed, but she raises her glass and puts on her best smile. “Abso-fucking-lutely.” We mwah-mwah without touching, and I slink past her to make my escape.

I was right the first time. I cannot stand even one more minute of this.