Chapter 3 - Ghosts At The Dinner Table
Dinner at L’Avenue was everything Vanessa dreamed of, and an absolute living nightmare for me.
The restaurant was bathed in soft, amber lighting, filled with the soft clinking of crystal glasses, the murmur of local politicians and tech founders, and the low, seductive notes of a baby grand piano playing in the corner.
Vanessa ordered the tasting menu with the reserve wine pairing. She talked effortlessly about her firm’s newest account, the remodel she wanted to do on our master bathroom, and the summer trip to Positano she had already started pinning on her private boards.
“We should rent a catamaran for the entire week,” she said, swirling a glass of vintage Burgundy. “The Carters did it last July, and Sarah said having a private skipper made all the difference. What do you think?”
“Sure,” I muttered, cutting into a piece of Wagyu beef that tasted like wet cardboard.
“Grant.”
I blinked, looking up across the white linen tablecloth.
Vanessa had set her wine glass down. Her eyes were sharp, evaluating me with the clinical precision she usually reserved for client presentations.
“You’ve said six words since we sat down,” she said, her voice dropping an octave, losing its bubbly public cadence. “You haven’t touched your wine. You’re checking your watch every five minutes. Did something happen today that you’re not telling me?”
“I told you, I’m just tired. Long day at the office, and the hospital stuff with my mother rattled me.”
“Your mother has had minor heart procedures before,” Vanessa pointed out coolly. “You never acted like a zombie afterward. Is it work? Did the Sterling deal fall through?”
“The Sterling deal is fine.”
“Then what is it?” She leaned forward, the diamond bracelet on her wrist catching the candle flame. “Because if you’re going to spend our first anniversary brooding over spreadsheets, we could have stayed home and saved eight hundred dollars.”
The callousness in her voice hit me like a splash of ice water.
I looked at the woman sitting across from me. She was stunning, brilliant, and ambitious. But as I looked at her, I realized with sickening clarity that Vanessa didn't know who I actually was. She loved the Grant Mercer who made partner at thirty-five, who drove a Porsche, who bought her designer bags and took her to exclusive parties.
When Elise and I had our first anniversary, fourteen years ago, we were completely broke. I had just been laid off from my first junior analyst job. Elise had surprised me by stringing fairy lights across our tiny, rented studio apartment, making pasta carbonara from a three-dollar box of noodles, and giving me a leather-bound notebook where she had written fifty reasons why she believed I was going to change the world.
She had loved me when I had nothing.
Vanessa loved the monument I had built with Elise’s sacrifice.
“I saw Elise today,” I said.
The silence that followed was instant and suffocating.
Vanessa’s entire demeanor froze. The polished, affectionate wife vanished, replaced by an icy wall of hostility. She leaned back against her leather banquette, folding her arms.
“Excuse me?”
“I saw her at the hospital. In the lobby.”
“And?” Vanessa’s voice was clipped, dangerous. “Why are you bringing up your ex-wife during our anniversary dinner, Grant? We agreed. Clean break. No contact. You blocked her on everything. Did she approach you? Did she ask for money?”
“No,” I said, my voice hardening. “She didn't ask for money. She could barely open a bottle of water. She’s sick, Vanessa.”
“Everyone gets sick.”
“She has cancer.”
Vanessa didn’t flinch. Not even a millimeter. She picked up her cloth napkin, gently dabbed the corners of her mouth, and looked at me with unvarnished irritation.
“That’s very unfortunate,” Vanessa said flatly. “Cancer is a terrible disease. But she is not your wife anymore. She hasn’t been your responsibility for nearly two years. You gave her a generous settlement—”
“I gave her scraps!” I snapped, my voice rising slightly. A couple at the adjacent table glanced over. I lowered my voice, leaning across the table, my fists clenching the linen. “I gave her scraps while I kept the equity, the retirement accounts, and the real estate! And do you know when she had her first major surgery? The weekend we were standing on the cliffs in Newport exchanging vows.”
Vanessa rolled her eyes. A genuine, dismissive roll of her eyes.
“Oh, please, Grant. Don't be so dramatic. Are you seriously trying to guilt-trip yourself—or worse, guilt-trip me—because your ex happened to have surgery on a weekend that was supposed to be about our love? What were you supposed to do? Call off our wedding so you could hold her hand? She chose not to tell you. She played the martyr. That was her decision.”
I stared at my wife.
The glittering diamonds on her wrist suddenly looked like cheap, vulgar glass.
“She didn’t play the martyr,” I whispered, the realization settling into my bones like lead. “She had too much self-respect to beg a man who discarded her like trash.”
Vanessa’s jaw tightened. “If you say one more word about that woman tonight, I am calling an Uber and going home alone. You choose right now, Grant. Are you here with your wife, or are you living in the past with a ghost?”
May you like
I looked at her. Really looked at her.
And for the first time in my life, I didn't care if she walked away.
