39. Gibson

39

GIBSON

M arianne and I are rarely not in touch, and this long Fourth of July weekend hasn’t been an exception. She’s made no secret of the fact that she’s with “friends” in the Sag Harbor house, not far from where Christian and I are, though I have lied about my own location. I’ve asked myself since the lie came out of my mouth— why ? Why wouldn’t I tell her I also had friends I’d be visiting.

Perhaps because they’re not my friends, but Christian certainly is. Is Marianne aware of how close I’ve grown to him? I don’t know. I don’t think I will know unless she tells me to my face. I don’t know whether she’ll care enough to speak with me about it.

Not the way I care that at least some people in Manhattan believe her friendship with Avery has progressed into something more. It bothers me for a hundred reasons, the first of which is that the open aspect of our marriage is supposed to be kept between us. NDAs are involved. Discretion. It’s the way she wanted it—to protect my reputation because she damn well knows what it would look like if I let my wife do whatever the fuck she wants .

Toxic masculinity is alive and well in Manhattan real estate. “Our women” are faithful and dependent. Toned, tucked, and dressed in the latest fashion. Bedecked in jewels. Plump lips, big tits, and slim hips. Marianne has always played the part beautifully. When we’re out, she’s gorgeous and demure, occasionally insinuating naughty things about a sex life that hasn’t existed in more than two decades. She gives the impression of a woman who’d tie my tie and spread her legs for me in a heartbeat. At my whim.

If she left me for a woman, it would publicly humiliate me. Privately? I don’t know how I’d feel about it. And now I’m forced to wonder how she’d feel if she knew I was this close to falling for someone else. I wish I had less guilt about it. I shouldn’t have any guilt left to give this marriage. I’ve been consumed by it since I proposed. Surely there’s a limit. Christian might know, if I were willing to bring this up with him, but we’re supposed to be having fun. My feelings are as chaotic as the light show overhead.

As the fireworks explode over the water, Jericho’s head is in Joe’s lap. Drew is curled into Olivier’s side. Elodie and Mallory are sitting next to each other, temples and shoulders touching. Jeremy and Larry are lying on the blanket, pointing and laughing like kids. I have Christian in my arms, between my legs, tucked against my chest, and a building sense of urgency to get ahead of my wife before she can do anything to hurt me. And I need to find out if she’s done anything already.

The problem is, usually when I have a complex problem like this—she’s the one I turn to for first steps—for the right person to seek counsel from. My mind works in finance and numbers. I have people skills, yes, but my relationships are transactional, non-memorable in general. Maybe it’s been lazy of me to leave the social side to her, but if we can’t have a real marriage, we’ve at least had a partnership.

I’m tempted to drive by the Sag Harbor house, see how many cars are out front—whether it looks like several people are there, or whether she’s only entertaining one person in particular.

What Olivier said earlier about Avery is stuck in my head. Not as stupid as she looks .

Maybe one man’s money isn’t enough for Avery Lawther.

My paranoia makes the grand finale of fireworks especially grating. I distract myself from the noise, my thoughts, and all of it by kissing Christian’s neck. He smells incredible. Faintly of chlorine and cologne and the vague vanilla of his shampoo. He’s been as soft as clay today. Sweet and sexy and hardly giving me any shit at all. It’s our last night here, and while I’m eager to not be in a house with eight other people, Manhattan means schedules and work and the club. Zoom calls, site visits, meetings with Geoff. Christian in a suit twenty feet away from me looking gorgeous, wanting to touch him but having to wait.

Or worse, he’ll be twenty-four floors away at the desk. Or even worse, I’ll be home, and he’ll be out with some combination of these people living his real life while I subsist in mine.

The listlessness I feel at the idea of being without him is familiar in that horrible, painful way of finding someone you really like and not being able to be with them constantly. The mutual obsession. The constant craving. The big, big feelings that you can’t say out loud because you’d sound nuts because it’s been three and a half fucking weeks.

“I don’t want to go home,” I whisper directly into his ear because the fireworks are deafening.

“Do we have to?”

I don’t answer. I give his neck another kiss, and he turns his face toward mine for a real one. I keep it PG-13, but it’s still perfect. Drew and Olivier definitely earn an R rating. It feels like we’re all in the mood to get back to the house.

But Sag Harbor is top of mind when Christian and I get into my car. “Do you mind if I take a slight detour?”

“What’s up?” he asks .

“This is embarrassing, but I’ll tell you since I intend to drag you along. I want to do a drive by of my house and see if Marianne lied about how she’s spending the weekend.

“Oh.”

“What?” I ask, his disappointed tone making me nervous.

He glances back at the others packing up the cars. “I can catch a ride with Jericho if you’d rather go alone.”

“This is literally a spying mission. I’m information gathering. I’m not pining, Christian.”

He sighs and slouches in his seat. “Fine. Why are you spying on your wife? Can’t you just call her?”

As I pull out onto the road, I give him a quick rundown of what my conversation with Olivier was about. He seems unimpressed, which honestly makes me feel better. “Just because she might be having a fling with someone doesn’t mean she’s planning to leave you and try to take all your money. It’s not like you’re not doing the exact same thing.”

Maybe that’s why it’s bothering me. I am doing the same thing, and I’m wondering if maybe it’s actually the right thing. “Would it make you feel better if I told her all about us? You want her to know your business, too?”

Christian grimaces and follows it up with a glare.

“What?” I ask. “Why does that question bother you?”

“Because I don’t want anything to do with your marriage.”

“Fine. We’ll go back to Larry’s. Whatever.”

“No, please. By all means, satisfy your weird curiosity. I don’t want you tossing and turning all night wondering what she’s up to when you can see it with your own eyes. I’m sure that’ll make it better.”

I’m so frustrated and confused, I actually pull over to the side of the road and put the car in park. Turning to him, I try very hard not to shout, “What do you want from me?” But the words do come out, and they’re louder than I intended.

“What would it take for you to leave her?” he asks .

I jerk my head, surprised at the question and even more disappointed in my lack of a ready answer.

He goes on. “Will finding out she’s with one person or four make a difference? If she’s actually in love with someone else, will that do the trick? Or is there some point where you’ll decide you’ve finally had enough of being unhappy and lonely and unwanted in your own home?”

“Ouch.”

He lifts his hands in exasperation. “Sorry?”

“Is there anything else you need to say?” I ask, hurt, but also riled.

“Yeah. It’s hard to watch. I don’t like it.”

“What would you like?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “It’s your life. You’re gonna live it the way you want to, but just remember—it’s a choice you’re making.”

“No, no, no. Back up. It doesn’t matter ? What I do doesn’t matter to you, or what you think shouldn’t matter to me?”

“You sound psycho right now.”

“And you’re being disingenuous. You can’t act like you care about me one second and then turn around and act like I’m inconsequential to you the next. Pick a lane. Which is it?”

“Fine, but we’re putting this in the friends compartment because?—”

“No. Fuck that,” I snap. “No more compartments. You’re too involved with me to retreat to a safe space. Just say what you want to say. I promise I can handle it.”

“You’re gonna have to ask the question again, then, because I’m fucking lost.”

“Are you planning to keep seeing me once we’re home?”

He scowls. “That was not one of the questions.”

“It was implied. Answer it.”

Frustrated, he slides a thumb behind his necklace. “Yes, Gibson. I don’t have any plans to stop seeing you. I already told you that.”

“Does it matter to you whether I’m happy or not?”

He squirms in his seat and averts his gaze. “Yes.”

“Do you think I should be married to Marianne?”

He sighs heavily. “No. I don’t. But not because of me.”

“I wasn’t asking because of you.”

“Then why?”

“Because I needed to hear someone else say it.”

He lets out another loud breath and folds his arms over his chest. “Well, there you go.”

It’s not entirely lost on me that he’s jealous. I would be, too, if our positions were reversed. This was our weekend, and I’m dragging my twisted, miserable marriage into it, but the sense of urgency isn’t going anywhere, and it won’t until I know what Marianne is up to.

“If I leave her, it’s not going to be some simple parting of ways. I have assets to protect, a reputation that’s important to me, and an extremely delicate history with her to navigate. In her way, I think she does care about me?—”

“But if she wants to be with someone else?—”

“That’s leverage.”

“So what does that make me?”

“I don’t know, Christian. You planning to stick around awhile?”

He drags his hand down his face. “I fucking hate you sometimes.”

I smirk and put the car back into gear, determined to make this a quick trip.

I have to put a playlist on to distract me from his silence on the way to Sag Harbor. I can’t tell whether he’s seething, pouting, ruminating, or thinking of a new line of poetry, but I’ll drive myself nuts trying to figure it out. If he doesn’t want to talk, I don’t blame him. He has every reason to be annoyed .

He opts to wait in the car while I park on the side of the road, a safe distance from the property. Fortunately, the mission requires very little of me physically. There are several cars in front of my house. Multiple windows are lit. It’s a party, and I don’t need to know what that looks like.

For now, she’s where she said she was going to be doing—at least for tonight—what she said she’d be doing.

Christian was right. I didn’t learn anything from this. Having more than one friend over doesn’t mean she’s not more involved with one in particular. This was pointless, and I’m, as usual, an idiot when it comes to her.

Christian gives me a grim look when I get back into the car. “That didn’t take long.”

“I told you it’d be quick,” I say, ignoring his unspoken question.

“You gonna sleep better tonight?”

“Maybe. If you’re nice to me.”