Remember Me? (Book 1) COMPLETED

The Loyal Husband

BETSY

Dinner with Rick started relatively tame.

I set the table at 6, brought out the food by 6:30, and my adulterous husband didn't show his face until 9:56. Of course, this was nothing new. His shirt was untucked, his tie undone, and his briefcase was going on empty, but I hardly noticed any of that. What struck me more than the lipstick on his collar was the sudden insistence on pretending that we were okay.

It had been obvious to me a year ago that Rick was up to something. He'd go through periods of disappearing three nights out of seven, and returning home with the worst hangover the next morning. When I got the phone call that Rick was being published, I thought his mistress was Kat. After all, that would make sense, a mutual satisfaction: she slept with him, and he'd pay to publish her book.

But Kat hardly wrote anymore, and she was never in it for the fortune from what she told me. Besides, as immoral as my husband could be, he wouldn't cheat to close a deal. It had to mean something. It should.

But that stung all the more.

Why couldn't I be enough for him?

He showed up tonight at 9:56, and instead of wolfing down his meal or taking it into the office, he offered me the seat beside him.

"Are you serious?"

He cleared his throat. "Yes."

He did look serious, but he almost certainly looked like he wanted me to refuse.

"Let me clean up the kitchen first," I said, warily stepping out of the dining room.

Of course, the kitchen was already clean; this was just an excuse to get away so I wouldn't throw something at him.

Once he was out of range, I picked up my empty wineglass from before and flung it against the wall. It shattered in a brilliant burst of crystal and red. I banged my fist against the granite, swallowing hot tears and the lump in my throat.

A shadow crossed the doorway and I grabbed the bottle beside me.

"Whoa," Rick said, startled, raising his hands in defense. "I know I'm late, but I really don't deserve a beating."

I lowered the bottle to the counter. "I'm not going to hurt you, Rick."

He shot a pointed look at the shattered remnants of the wineglass. "Oh, no?"

"Enough," I growled, clenching my jaw as I averted my gaze to the near-empty bottle of wine. "What is wrong with you?"

"I'm just trying to be a good husband, Betsy—" he ran an anxious hand through his hair "—I made it home for dinner."

"More than three hours late," I hissed, glare snapping to him when he moved.

His arm fell to his side. Surprisingly, he looked hurt. "Betsy—"

"Quit it, Rick," I snapped. "You're done, enough, I get it—" my voice cracked "—you don't care enough to make us work."

"But I do want to make us work," he insisted, something catching in his voice, "I wanted to eat dinner with you tonight. I want to eat dinner with you tonight, my love. Please."

The last word sparked something in me and I stared at him for a moment, trembling in silent fury.

Why did it take him trying to make it work for me to realize, for certain, that it never will?

"You came home because your bitch wouldn't cook for you," I spat, lifting the bottle now but to my lips this time. "If you wanted dinner with me, dear husband of mine, you would've been here to eat it with me. Now," I hissed, pausing to drown the dregs of the bottle, "you can eat it with her."

Despite my direct rejection, Rick was virtually unfazed. In fact, he seemed collected, determined. That angered me even more.

"Betsy."

I glared at him. "What?"

He stepped forward.

"Betsy."

The richness in his tone surprised me.

"What?" I spat forcefully, slamming the bottle on the counter to try and intimidate him.

"Elizabeth Chase," he said, this time with a half-smile.

The way he said it reminded me of the way he whispered my name on our wedding night.

It seemed he also remembered.

"I love you."

But I could never forget what he'd done. How he'd betrayed me with someone else.

"And if I don't believe you?"

"I love you more than the day you saved my life at the pier, Betsy, more than the day you told me about your brother. More than even the day we got married." With every example, he drew closer, until he stood at the end of the island where there was rather little between us.

"What happened, then?" I said, keeping my voice calm while my insides seethed. "When did you stop loving me as much as you claim that you do?"

"Everything I've done since I've met you has been for you, my love." His hand reached for mine.

I pulled back.

"That doesn't answer the question, Rick."

He let out a puff of air, exasperation bleeding through. "Why are you so convinced I don't love you anymore?"

"Because," I spat, "I like to believe I know you, Rick, and because I do, I know you wouldn't go with another woman unless you loved her." Hot tears pricked my eyes. "In the way you don't look at me anymore."

He reached for my hand now, and this time I let him take it. "Betsy," he said softly, almost a whisper, "you mean the world to me. Nothing else—no one else—could compare. You have been there for me through thick and thin, from the very start of the company to where it is now. Chase Industries wouldn't be what it is today. I wouldn't be the man I am today, Betsy, without you." He pressed the back of my hand to his lips, giving me a pleading look.

I couldn't believe it. After almost a year of lies, (which was as far back as I could trace his behavior) he thought he could come back and patch things up in an evening over a stone-cold dinner. More than that, he was still dressed in the same clothes he probably saw her with.

She'd helped him undo the buttons of his shirt. All of the sudden my blouse felt too tight, the world spun around me. The cold granite sapped my warmth while the heat from Rick's hand only made me burn. I tore my hand from his, falling back.

"I can't," I gasped, clutching a hand to my chest and palpitating heart. "Not again, not anymore—"

I couldn't survive the lies.

"Betsy." Rick grabbed me forcefully by the shoulders, and I was forced to face him.

"Why are you pretending?" I hissed, thrashing in his grip. He pressed me hard against his chest, and I started to beat my fists. "Why are you trying to make everything okay again?" My voice raised to a shout, but Rick didn't seem deterred.

"Listen, Betsy." Rick used one hand to tug my face to his.

I was tempted to bite his fingers.

"I know we aren't working, Betsy. I know we haven't been working in a long time—yes, and before you start, I know it's my fault." He sighed, his grip on me loosening somewhat. I didn't pull away. "I want to make things better between us, Betsy. I was hoping we could start with dinner."

"It won't be that easy," I whispered.

He gently took my hand, and once more pressed it against his lips. "I'll do anything."

I hesitated.

"Please, won't you at least consider it?"