45. Gibson

45

GIBSON

F uck.

Hearing his voice and those unbelievable words have me thrumming with the need to get to him. To be with him .

In contemplating ending my marriage, I’ve been thinking a lot about how it began. The fast infatuation. The kinky sex. The talks she and I used to have about what it would be like when we were free of our parents and rich. What our kids would be like—how many—what names—cats or dogs or none of the above because we never wanted to leave New York. It was magical for about a year, and then we were in a relationship, which came with all the trappings of shit that pisses each other off.

Petty jealousies. Premature ejaculations. Running late for plans. Annoying friends who didn’t think we were right for each other. All the usual bullshit young couples face and make it through or don’t. We did. I couldn’t imagine anyone better for me—anyone I’d rather spend my life with.

After the rape, I could never imagine leaving her. Between her trauma and my guilt, we had a bond that was too intense to break. But the woman I’m married to now is not the woman I met, or even the one I married. Everyone changes. God knows, I have. But living separate lives together isn’t the same as growing together or even growing apart. The person Avery described to me today is not a woman I know, or a woman I ever knew.

She’s needy and jealous. Lonely and manipulative. She’s broken and lashing out, but she’s also fierce and passionate. Though ashamed, as she should be, Avery admitted Marianne fell in love with her over the last year. While Avery was never particularly fond of being intimate with her, their relationship was also physical. Recently, Avery met a successful surgeon who’s promised to give her the life she thought she could have with Graham Lawther, who wasn’t rich enough.

Marianne was a rung on the social ladder Avery wanted to climb, and when it got serious—when Marianne told Avery she would leave me for her—Avery chickened out.

It explains the weight loss, the lack of overnight guests. But what it does not explain is Marianne’s persistent silence. Her total lack of interest in me. The only thing that explains that is the honest truth. We’ve grown so far apart, the distance is insurmountable.

I’m no longer in love with her.

The opening of our marriage was the beginning of the end of my infatuation with her. The end of my optimism. The end of any hope for us.

Do I love her? Yes. Always.

Are we toxically co-dependent? Also, probably yes.

Do I want to go on like this when a future I never could have imagined with the last person in the world I could have pictured it with is possible? Who’s given me a reason to hope again?

I don’t.

I want to take Christian’s love for granted. I want to fight for his attention and win. I want to beg him to forgive me when I inevitably fuck up and hold him tighter when he does. I want my heart on the line.

I want to love him wildly .

Every day. As much as I possibly can.

But out of respect for him, and out of loyalty to the woman I pledged my life to—even if barely a sliver of her still exists—I have to tell her the truth. I’ve moved on, and now it’s her turn to do the same.

A creature of habit, Marianne has a cocktail every night on the terrace, no matter the weather. She smokes two cigarettes, takes a “medicinal” gummy and proceeds with her evening, whether it involves a charity ball or an evening of making a woman crawl on her knees for the honor of licking her panties. She calls it happy hour.

She looks surprised to see me and even more disoriented when I take a chair from the outdoor table and turn it to face her lounger.

“Well, hello.”

“I was just speaking with Christian,” I say.

Her jaw sets, and she does a slow blink, meeting my eyes with her chin held high. “Is there something you’d like to tell me about you and your assistant?”

“I don’t intend to play a game with you here. Yes, he and I are having sex, along with a relationship, and it’s been going on since he came with me to Rome.”

If she’s surprised by any of this, I can’t tell.

“Have you always been attracted to men?”

“Not always, but not never.”

“I had no idea.”

“Well, you wouldn’t,” I say.

“Ouch.” She lights a cigarette and inhales. She blows the smoke in my direction, and I take it.

“I’m having our marriage annulled.”

She stares blankly at me as I give the words and the concept a moment to sink in. Finally, she blinks again. “I’m sorry?”

“We qualify, it’s less messy, and I’m prepared to offer you a generous lump sum, no strings attached. ”

“How generous?”

“Half a billion.”

“Hm.” She breaks eye contact and stares off into the distance, taking a long casual drag off her cigarette. “Is this about Palm Beach?”

“I think you know it’s more than that.”

“Right. Of course.” She hitches up her knees and opens her thighs, gesturing at her crotch with the hand holding the cigarette. “It’s about this. Forget all the times I helped you. All the times I cleaned up some stupid mess you made. Forget all the connections I gave you—the freedom. You just want a nice warm hole to stick your cock in, and that’ll make it all better. Poor, poor man.”

“Don’t be an asshole, Marianne. I know what happened with Avery, and I understand you’re hurt. Don’t take it out on me.”

This gets her attention. A spark returns to her eyes. “Not take it out on you? You’re leaving me.”

“Which is long overdue and shouldn’t come as a surprise.”

“Really, Gibson? After twenty years of sad puppy dog eyes because I wouldn’t let you in my bed, now all of a sudden you want to run off with your boyfriend, and I shouldn’t be surprised ?”

I was expecting the emasculation, but that doesn’t make it any more enjoyable.

“Why are you pissed?” I ask.

“I just sat on a park bench with your boy toy not twenty minutes ago telling him if he hurt you, I would ruin his life. Do I sound like an uninterested party? Fine, I don’t want to have sex with you. If that were your problem you could have left years ago. But we have a life now. Friends. Status. We’re a partnership?—”

“I want more than a fucking partnership, Marianne.”

“No one’s saying you can’t have your fun. I don’t give a shit who you fuck as long as you keep it discreet. There’s no need to upend our lives because you decided screwing your assistant was a good idea. I could have told you that was a mistake. Don’t lead with your dick, Gibson.”

I force myself to take a deep breath. “About the annulment. I’ll need a statement from you that the marriage was never consummated.”

“Dream the fuck on.” She stubs out her cigarette and sits up in the chair, her legs straddling the seat.

“We have piles of NDAs—people you and I have both been with that prove our marriage was open. Every single one of yours is signed by a woman.”

“Those don’t date back the entire length of our marriage?—”

“We have couple’s counseling records?—”

“You can’t use those without my consent.”

“Marianne—what the fuck? We don’t have to do this anymore. You can find someone better than Avery fucking Lawther, and you can be happy, too.”

“ I am happy ,” she screams, making me jerk. And then she bursts into tears I don’t think are fake. “I’m sorry . I’ve told you how many thousands of times, I am so, so sorry I’m not what you wanted, and that I couldn’t become her again. I have tried so hard. Do you have any idea how much I love you? How I would do anything for you. Anything, Gibson.”

“Then do this,” I say.

“How?” Her voice cracks. “Do you want to forget I ever existed, too?”

“No,” I say gently. “I could never. This is about moving on.”

“I feel—I don’t—Gibson, you’re my world.”

“You were in love with someone else .”

Her eyes blow wide, and her sobbing abruptly stops. “How do you know that?”

“I told you,” I say evenly, while desperately not wanting to play this card. “I know what happened with Avery.”

“How? ”

“I suspected, she confirmed.”

“When?”

I meet her gaze. “Today.”

Her face turns a shade paler. “You spoke with her today ?”

I give her a short nod.

“Why?”

“Please. Just tell me you won’t fight me on this.”

She shakes her head vehemently. “I will fight with everything I have.”

“For what ? To stay here? Ensure I’m fucking miserable?”

“You don’t have to be?—”

“I’m not hiding him,” I say sharply. “You can tell people whatever you want—you divorced me. I’m terrible. You cleaned me out. Whatever the fuck you want. I won’t contradict you because I don’t care .” I refuse to tell her what Christian means to me—what I really want. I won’t subject his name to her scorn. But the only way this ends for me is with a clean slate.

And, ideally, Christian.

“Fine,” she says, standing. “Let’s just fucking do it. Come to my bedroom. If I tell you to stop—don’t. Maybe I just need to feel all of it again—maybe I just need to?—”

“Jesus.”

“ Let me try ,” she cries.

“ No .”

“I can do it.” Even as she says it, she shudders—either in disgust or terror.

“No,” I say again.

“I don’t know what to do without you,” she says. “Please, love—give me a chance. Let me see if I can remember us. If you love me?—”

“I will always love you, and that is why I would never do that to you. You know that.”

“Why are you doing this, then? Why are you saying these things? ”

“I want you to have whatever you need. I’m not abandoning you. The only thing I’m leaving is this sham of a marriage that neither of us wants.”

“I’m telling you I do.”

“You just spent a month in the Hamptons without me.”

“We talked every day.”

“Marianne, please?—”

“You promised—after what happened—you swore to me you’d never leave me again. You’d keep me safe. You’d love me.”

I don’t miss the swing below the belt, aimed directly at the guilt I bear, which still weighs heavily. But it’s a tactic. She only ever blames me when it’s convenient for her. “You’ll be safe. And I’ll always love you.”

“You can’t do this.”

I’d be less than human if I said she’s not getting to me. She’s genuinely terrified for reasons I don’t know her well enough anymore to guess. It makes it hard for me to know how to reassure her. “I’ll be here for you every step of the way. But don’t you want a fresh start? You got a glimpse of one with Avery. Listen, I know you’re hurting, and I know you don’t think you want this, but aren’t you sick of sitting at breakfast with someone who doesn’t know you? Who you don’t even want to know you? You’re terrified to be alone with me for more than thirty minutes, but you want to keep living with me for the rest of your life?”

“I’ve been distracted. I’m sorry—it’ll be better, now that…” She struggles to swallow. “I’ll be better.”

“What about me?” I stand up because I can’t take this sitting down anymore. “You claim to love me, that you’re willing to do anything, but I have been miserable without you.”

“It’s so easy for you, isn’t it?” she seethes, flipping into rage again like she hasn’t been listening to half of what I said. “For men. You get older and richer, and people think oh, he’s aging so well. Isn’t he so handsome? How can I get his number? People will fall all over themselves when you announce you’re single again. But what happens to me?”

I stare at this beautiful woman—my wife. This lesbian who has no interest in men, but for some reason thinks women will turn her down when they sign up in droves for the privilege of spending a few hours with her. It hits me now what it meant to her to love Avery. Avery—the gold-digging bitch who laughed it off like it was a silly crush.

Avery broke her heart.

My timing sucks.

“I’m so sorry she hurt you.”

Marianne covers her face with her hands and sobs. Her frail shoulders shake with cries that wrack her body. “I—trusted—her.”

“I know. She’s horrible.”

Marianne’s head bobs up and down in agreement.

“Can I hug you?”

She nods again.

I pull her into my arms and hold her while she cries. I keep my hands frozen on her back and rest my chin on her soft bun. I can’t remember the last time we even did this .

Since this could very well be the last time I hold Marianne, I soak in what I can from it. Not the sobbing part, but the trust, however fleeting. Her forever familiar scent.

“Why did you go to her?” she asks when she manages to catch her breath again.

I let go and take half a step away. “I needed a witness regarding our marriage for the annulment.”

Her glare could slice me in half. “And she gave it to you?”

“She did.”

“Snake.”

I’m not sure if she means me or Avery.

She lifts her chin again, resolve in her posture and the glacial guard back on her tear-streaked face. “I want the apartment. ”

I shut my eyes and turn my back on her. “Five hundred million dollars, Marianne. This is my building.”

She exhales harshly. “Do you feel better now?”

I shake my head.

“When would you like me gone?”

That question is one of the harshest I’ve ever been asked. If I don’t give her a timeline, she might never leave. If I give her one, I’m evicting her.

“Please don’t make me answer that.”

She sighs heavily. “So brave until you have to face the consequences.”

I turn around. “Marianne…”

She waves a hand to shut me up. “I need to be alone for a while. Is there anything else I need to know?”

“No,” I say.

“I hope he’s worth it.”

He got me this far.

I may never be able to thank him enough.