“Eat.”
He looked at me.
“What?”
“I brought you lunch.”
“Chelsea…”
“I’m angry with you.”
“I know.”
“I’m hurt.”
“I know.”
“But I’m not going to punish you by letting you starve.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
I turned toward the door.
“I’m not moving.”
His head lifted.
“What?”
“I’m not moving six weeks from now.”
“Chelsea, please.”
“Olive is in the middle of the school year.”
“I know.”
“I have clients.”
“I know.”
“We have a home.”
“I know.”
“We have friends.”
“I know.”
“And we have a life.”
His voice dropped.
“I know.”
I looked at him.
“No, Ben. You knew about your life.”
I pointed at myself.
“You forgot I had one too.”
Then I walked out.
I made it all the way to my car before I cried.
I sat behind the wheel with the lunch bag beside me and stared through the windshield.
Eleven years.
Four months of secrets.
And somehow the sandwich I’d packed that morning hurt more than the job offer.
Five minutes later, someone knocked on my window.
Arnold.
I lowered it.
“I don’t want you to explain my husband to me.”
“I’m not going to.”
“Good.”
He leaned against the door.
“But don’t assume he took that job because he wants more money.”
