“That’s precisely the problem,” he replied, loud enough for everyone at the table to understand. “You’re always focused on being yourself instead of trying to improve yourself.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the waiters seemed to hesitate. Patricia tried to laugh, but it escaped her.
Travis continued, more confidently: “Do you realize how exhausting this is? Explaining why my wife shops at discount stores, why she insists on keeping a job that pays less than what we make from wine, why she doesn’t understand the most basic social codes.”
My fingers brushed against my grandmother’s earrings, bringing me back to reality. “If I’m such a burden,” I asked evenly, “why did you marry me?”
The question lingered like a spark. Travis’s face hardened; the vein in his temple throbbed in the dim light. He rose slowly, his chair scraping noisily against the marble floor.
“Because I thought you could improve,” he said. “Raise yourself. Teach you how to fit in. But social class isn’t something you learn, is it? You’re still that unknown country boy I took under my wing.”
At that moment, the check arrived, placed before me like a judgment.
Travis was already putting on his coat. “This is what happens when you try to pass someone off as someone else,” he said. “Happy birthday, Savannah.”
Then, unable to stop himself from repeating himself, he tossed these words over his shoulder as he walked away: “A woman like you should be grateful that I even deigned to look at you.”
He left me sitting amidst seventeen suddenly engrossed phone screens. Total: $3,847.92.
I discreetly retrieved the credit card I’d hidden from him—the one I’d secretly accumulated over six months—and paid the bill without a word. Amber followed him a few moments later, muttering something about an early morning date the next day.
The others dispersed just as quickly, leaving behind empty glasses and the slight residue of their cruelty.
Henri’s business card stayed in my pocket as I stepped out into the cold. The valet avoided my gaze as he called a taxi. The crisp November air pierced my red dress, but I barely noticed. My mind no longer replayed the humiliation endlessly; it cataloged it. Evidence, not a wound.
Forty-three blocks gave me time to think. Each passing streetlamp seemed like an important step on a path I was only just beginning to glimpse.
Travis’s Audi was parked crookedly in the garage when I arrived, a sign he’d had too much to drink again. I found him in his office, slumped in his leather chair, an open bottle of Macallan beside him. His phone was face up, Amber’s messages popping up on the screen every few seconds.
From the bathroom, I texted Rachel: He fainted. Can you come now?
Twenty minutes later, she entered discreetly, dressed in dark clothing and carrying her laptop bag with the confidence of a professional. She glanced at Travis, who was snoring, and indicated her computer.
“How long?”
“At least three hours,” I said. “Probably more.”
Rachel sat down at her desk and typed with calm precision. “Most people reuse their passwords. Birthday. Wedding anniversary. No, men like him choose dates that make them look good. The day he became a partner.”
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