The Ground Rules Part 18

But it doesn't work. At all. Visions of Gabe and Bridget twirl around in my head. I'm so messed up. Why did I ever agree to this? I've never regretted anything more in my life.

I kiss the girls good night and tuck them in. I even kiss Bitzy, Claire's stuffed monkey, and Cookie, Chloe's favorite stuffed dog. As I tuck the girls in, a big part of me is happy I didn't go through with it. I can't do this to them-jeopardize my marriage, our lives. My panic attack was truly a blessing in disguise. I don't want to do this.

I take a long bath, and try not to think.

Gabe finally comes home at around eleven. I bound down the stairs in my plush pink bathrobe to see him.

And as soon as I see his face, I know.

He's slept with her.

My heart sinks.

I don't know what to say to him. I know we can't discuss it, but I want to know everything. I need to know everything.

"How was your night?" I ask, my voice soft.

He hesitates, taking off his jacket. "It was fine."

I stare down at the floor, not wanting to see his face, to see the truth. "Just fine?"

He turns away from me. "Mirella," he says. "You know we're not supposed to talk about it. It's a bad idea."

"Did you..."

He swallows, avoiding my gaze.

"Did you?" I snap. "Look at me."

He rakes a hand through his hair and turns to look at me. "Why are you doing this, Ella?"

My throat closes up. The tears rush out. "Because..."

He nods, his eyes downcast.

I sit down on the stairs and hug my knees. The tears flow. Part of me was hoping he'd had a change of heart too, that he'd also realized this was one big, giant mistake.

He wraps his arms around me, holding me tight. "Ella," he whispers, "you agreed to this. I thought we both wanted this."

I bury my swollen face in his chest. "I thought I wanted it too," I cry.

"You've changed your mind?" he asks. "You still can, if you don't want to do this."

"Oh great," I hiss, pus.h.i.+ng him away. "You would just love that. You've already got your jollies. You're good to go."

"Ella," he pleads, reaching for my hand. "I know I can't say anything, but I can tell you one thing," he says, his gorgeous hazel eyes fixed on mine. "It was just s.e.x. Just s.e.x."

Just s.e.x. Plain and simple.

"How did you f.u.c.k her?" I hiss. I want to know all the sordid details.

"Mirella," he snaps, grasping my hand tighter. "The girls are upstairs...don't be like this."

"How?" I ask. "More than one way, I bet."

He grabs my face in his hands. Hard. "Don't do this," he pleads with me. "Let's end this right now. Call everything off."

I tear myself away and stand, wiping my face with the sleeve of my bathrobe.

He reaches from behind and wraps his arms tightly around me, holding me captive. "What happened with Weston?" he asks, his words sharp and edgy. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"No. He was good."

Better than good.

"Did you two..." Suddenly, Gabe is the one who's curious.

"No," I say simply, not really wanting to talk about the details.

"Wow," he says. "What was he waiting for? You're gorgeous...I would have nailed you within the hour."

He almost did, I want to say.

"What's wrong with the guy? I told you he was strange."

I turn around to look at him. "It was me, Gabe," I cry. "I wasn't ready."

"Oh..." he mutters, and I see joy in his eyes. He's happy I didn't go through with it.

I bury my face in my hands. "I actually had one of my panic attacks," I confess.

"You didn't!"

"Full-blown, baby. It was mortifying."

"I'm sorry, babe," he says, hugging me tightly. "This was a bad idea."

I know.

"I love you so much," he adds in a whisper, squeezing me tighter.

I hold him tight, thinking maybe there's still a chance to end all this.

Maybe there's still a chance for us.

I'm sure Weston will understand.

Life is strange now.

I know Gabe hasn't technically cheated on me, but it still feels like he has. I can't be with him. There's too much anger in me. I need time.

He's been very patient and kind. He says he understands how I feel. But I don't think he really does.

We talk and officially decide to not go through with the exchange. We both agree it was a terrible idea in the first place. But I want to tell Weston in person. I don't think it's the kind of thing I should tell his a.s.sistant-and that would be way too awkward.

I pace around the house for days, dreading the confrontation. I don't eat. I don't sleep. Weston is a wonderful man, and the last thing I want to do is hurt him.

But I really can't do this.

I dab a touch of lip gloss, looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My hair is up in a hard bun-no tendrils framing my face, not the least amount of softness. I've worn one of my outfits usually reserved for school-a simple black A-line skirt, a white b.u.t.toned blouse with a red Peter Pan collar. My makeup is minimal, and I haven't bothered with accessories.

It seems an appropriate outfit for a break-up. I definitely don't want to show up in a sultry dress, f.u.c.k-me heels, and then tell him I don't want to see him anymore-that would just be cruel.

I put on my gla.s.ses and grab my red briefcase on my way out.

Weston has sent his car to fetch me again-it's much better this way. I don't drive very much in the city, and I'm likely to get lost or develop an ulcer trying to find a parking spot.

As I sit, looking out the window, my emotions are at odds. I don't really want to do this. I've made my decision, yet I cannot imagine never seeing Weston again. And I know I'll never see him again once I tell him I don't want to do this. I wonder how he'll react-I know he'll be disappointed.

We meet for lunch at Sixteen. I've requested a lunch meeting instead of our usual dinner date-the last thing I want is a dark, moody restaurant-I don't want to lose my resolve.

I'm ending this.

As I leave the elevator, I'm confident I can do this.

But then, sure enough, I see him standing against the wall at the entrance. I've never seen him look so gorgeous-his tall frame sleek in a snug chocolate brown V-neck s.h.i.+rt and slim fitted khakis. A brown distressed leather satchel hangs loosely over his shoulder, and dark hipster gla.s.ses frame his eyes.

The man looks like a friggin' Gucci ad.

d.a.m.n.

Just when I thought he couldn't possibly get s.e.xier.

He flashes me that insanely wide smile of his when he spots me. He seems so happy to see me, and I'm about to dump him. My heart is filled with guilt.

He kisses me on the cheek. "I love those gla.s.ses."

I was trying to be uns.e.xy, but I think the gla.s.ses have backfired.

"I like yours too. Are they just for show?"

"They're the real thing. I like to occasionally give my eyes a break from contacts."

I take in my surroundings-wide open s.p.a.ces, white linen tables, wood veneered walls as tall as the sky, and a view of Chicago to die for.

"Do you have a big prescription?" I ask as the hostess leads us to our table.

"I don't see too well. I've considered Lasik eye surgery, but honestly, it scares the h.e.l.l out of me," he says, pulling a chair for me.

"I have a pretty small prescription. Point five in one eye, and point seventy-five in the other. What's yours?"

"About two point five in both eyes."

Splendid, I muse...we're just two nerds having a really geeky conversation about our eye prescriptions-this isn't s.e.xy at all.

This is exactly the mood I was hoping for.

But then, he turns on a dime.

"I like your skirt," his says, his green eyes as striking as ever, even behind those heavy dark frames.

"Thank you," I say, trying to not be affected.

But it's no use. He looks so good.

Water is poured and menus are handed out.

I barely browse the menu-too much on my mind. "Listen, Weston, thank you for meeting me today," I start, trying to keep the mood formal. "I hope it wasn't too much of an inconvenience changing the time."

"Well," he says. "I did have plans with my children."

"Oh no," I say and suddenly feel like I've trampled a puppy. "I didn't want to take you away from your kids."

"It's fine, Mirella. We're actually having an early dinner tonight instead and going to see a movie. They hardly ever get to spend Sat.u.r.day nights with me. They're quite excited about it, in fact."

"Oh, I'm glad to hear it," I say, looking down at the lunch menu. I decide to opt for the leek and truffle soup and salad. Weston decides on the beef pot au feu.

"Listen," I say, gulping a sip of water. "I wanted to meet today..." I trail off. This is a lot harder than I antic.i.p.ated.

"Yes...what?"

I sigh. "Oh nothing..."

I am such a coward.

"I have something special planned. I thought it might be a good idea for us to do something fun together, get comfortable around each other," he says. "I certainly don't expect you to jump into bed with me right after dessert."

I sigh. He's making this really hard.

"You don't want me to have another panic attack?" I joke.

He laughs. "Yes, hopefully we can avoid that today."

"Where are you taking me?" I ask curious, thinking I can break up with him at the end of our outing. I know I'm procrastinating, but I can't help it. I just want to spend a little more time with him before we say good-bye forever.

"It's a surprise," he replies, as excited as a school boy going on a field trip. "But I can tell you...it's one of my favorite places in the world."

I am officially intrigued. What could it be? What would be one of Weston's favorite places in the world? The theater? The museum?