“Are you hungry?” Charlie picked up the menu, and Anne noticed his fingers curling around the edges of it, the nails bitten for the first time since they’d met. You did that, she thought to herself. You made this man unhappy enough to revert to a childhood soothing behavior.
“A bit,” she replied, picking up her own menu. “Maybe just a salad.”
“You look like shit, maybe you should eat something more substantial.” He lowered his menu and looked at her. “Or are you working off more calories than you’re taking in?”
She paused. “With Richard?”
“Is that his name?”
“You know it is. You spoke to him more recently than I have. I haven’t seen Richard since you threw me out.”
Charlie lifted the menu again. “Poor sod,” he said, from behind it. “You really are coldhearted, Anne.”
“No,” she said, evenly. “I’m brokenhearted. I destroyed my marriage, my family, and I’m doing everything I can to fix it. I won’t ever see him again. I will wait every day of my life for you to forgive me.”
“Well, don’t hold your breath.” The waitress came over, and Charlie smiled at her, his full wattage, judge-persuading smile. The waitress blushed. “Hi there, I’m going to get the steak frites, and the lady across the table will have a small salad and a glass of water.”
The waitress looked over at Anne, who raised her eyebrows. “No, I’ll have the steak frites, too, thanks. No salad. And another glass of Cabernet, please.”
The waitress looked back at Charlie. “Wine for you, sir?”
“No thanks,” he said. “I’m driving.”
The waitress stepped away, wondering what the fuck was going on there. Handsome guy, pretty woman, but tension for days.
They sat in silence for a moment. A busboy brought bread and butter, and Charlie tore into a roll. Taking it out on the baked goods, apparently.
“How are the kids?” Anne tried to keep her voice neutral.
“What the fuck do you care?”
“Charlie . . .”
“They’re shitty. Kate has been wetting the bed. Theo got into a fight at school that he won’t tell me about, but I can imagine it felt pretty good to smack the shit out of someone when you’re so angry with your parents you can barely look them in the eye.”
“He’s still mad?”
“He hasn’t smiled at me in nearly three weeks.”
“What are you doing about Kate?”
“Changing the sheets. I dug out the plastic bed thingies we had when they were toddlers. I double sheet with the plastic thingies, just like we used to. It’s fine. She’ll get over it. We’ll all survive.”
“I miss you all so much.”
He popped bread into his mouth, and spoke around it. “Should have thought about that before you sucked someone else’s dick.”
“I’m so sorry, Charlie. I fucked up so badly, but I really . . .”
“Shut up, Anne. We’re here to talk about how to end our marriage, not rehash it.”
“Can’t we try and work it out? I love you . . .”
“Not enough to stay faithful. Wasn’t I good enough for you, Anne? Not enough fucking, was that the problem? I tried. You never wanted to.”
“It wasn’t that.”
“I’d ask what it was, but I don’t care. I can barely sit across the table from you, Anne, without wanting to punch you. I’ve never felt physically violent in my life, but I would happily beat you to death for what you’ve done to our kids.” The waitress had come back during this speech, and was pretending not to have heard it.
“Your wine,” she said, placing it in front of Anne.
Anne’s hand trembled as she picked up the glass. “I’m so sorry, Charlie.”
“Fuck off, Anne.”
He watched her drink, suddenly wanting to cry. He was angry, he was furious, but he was also so lonely and sad it was all he could do not to beg her to come home. He wanted to stay angry, though, so he looked away, not wanting to watch her large gray eyes fill with tears.
“I’ve never stopped loving you, Charlie. I really think I’ve been having a nervous breakdown, some kind of mental illness.”
“I don’t care about this, Anne. Let’s just work out a schedule for the kids.”
“No, Charlie. Please listen. I’ve been seeing a psychiatrist. I’ve started medication. I’ve found us a marriage therapist— Will you go with me? Please, please can we try and work this out? I don’t want to divorce you, I want to make it right, I want to come home and be there forever. I made a mistake, a terrible mistake, but I was sick, Charlie.” Her hands were shaking. She put down her wineglass before she spilled it.
“Then why didn’t you ask me for help, Anne? Why didn’t you go see a psychiatrist months ago? Why did you sleep with another man instead? Why did you creep around for months behind my back, behind the kids’ backs, cheating on all of us instead of doing something about your supposed misery? I don’t think you’re sick at all. I think you’re a selfish, narcissistic bitch who wanted to fuck a younger, good-looking guy who thought you were special. I hate you, Anne, I really fucking hate you.” For all the fury in his words, his tone of voice was cool and detached. Anne felt herself eviscerated.
He held up his hand, and the waitress came over. “I lost my appetite. Can I get the check, please?”
Anne protested. “But we haven’t worked out . . .”
Charlie shook his head. “Look, Anne, I’m not ready to do this, clearly. Did you drive here?” The waitress brought the check, and he threw his credit card down.
“No, I took an Uber.”
“I’ll drive you home, we’ll talk in the car, and then that’s it. I can’t sit with you for an hour and make small talk.” His voice was tight and she could hear the tears in it. Suddenly she remembered that same tone one night years before, when baby Kate had run a sudden fever of 104, and Charlie had rushed her to the ER. He’d called Anne to let her know—as she sat at home with toddler Theo—that they’d had to do
