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A long moment passes, then stretches into two. He blinks a few times but holds my gaze as his mind works into overtime. "I'm thinking," he finally says. "Trying to decide if you are lying or if you sincerely believe what you just told me."
"I'm not lying."
He studies me in a way that he’s never done before, as if he is assembling a different clue from every part of my face. "I believe that you mean what you're telling me," he says slowly. "That doesn't mean you aren't insane."
I smile slightly. "I'm not insane."
"One of us is. I'd much rather it be you.”
My smile drops. "You're not insane."
"I'm absent-minded, I'm not living separate lives."
"I've been fucking your other personality for two years. You are."
"Do you love him?" The question, when repeated a second time, has entirely different tones. Now it is thoughtful, almost kind. He probably thinks I’m mental.
"Yes." I blink, and tears are suddenly present, blurring my vision. It isn't fair to love a man in two different ways. One way is hard enough.
"More than me?"
"No."
“You're mistaken." His lips press together and his jaw hardens, his stubbornness coming out to play. He smooths his hands down the front of his slacks and goes to stand up. The wine glass topples and shatters on the brick floor and I flinch at the harsh sound.
"Jillian is the one who told me." It’s a gamble, but it gets his attention.
He is navigating around the sharp edge of the coffee table and pauses, then turns to me.“Excuse me?"
I move to the end of the couch, following his retreat, and grab at his pants, trying to keep him in place. “When we were in Belize—the weekend you were going to first propose. I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't find you. I went downstairs and saw you in the bar. But you weren't yourself. You didn't recognize me. You introduced yourself as someone else—"
I stop as he roughly pushes me aside. The action was more Lee than Brant and I choke back the rest of my sentence.
"You're wrong,” he snaps. “You were confused. Probably drunk."
The dig is so unlike Brant that it takes me a moment to react. I struggle to my feet, and reach for his hand, but miss. Frustration bubbles through me. "No! I stood in the bar, and you told meyou didn't know me. You made a fool out of me, you made me look crazy. You had your hands all over another woman. I left the bar and called Jillian. She’s the one who told me." I lower my voice, and at least he isn’t walking away, he’s standing half inside the kitchen, his head cocked toward me, listening.
"She told me that you've suffered from DID since you were ten. Since you became a savant. She said the doctor said you can’t be told the truth. That you might have a mental break and lose Brant and adopt one of the other personas. Your parents, Jillian ... they all know. They keep the secret to protect you!" My voice gives out on the last word, the hoarse rasp of the final work breaking the sentence in two.
He spins back toward me and steps closer, his hands fisting, and the calm stride of his voice is broken by the frustration in his tone. "So why then, Layana, areyoutelling me this?"
"I can't..." I lose my nerve, too scared to voice my selfish thoughts. “Lee ... he wants me to choose. What you do in your other lives, I tried but I can't ignore it. I can't be your wife and know that when you are away from me, when you are living another life, that you are touching other women. Falling in love with other women. I need you to be fully mine. I need you to love only me. Right now, I have you both. I love you both. But Lee, he wants me to choose. I can't lose him, Brant. I need to find a way to have you both, without losing either of you."
"So your plan was to tell me. To burden me with this?”
I wanted to go to him, to hold him, but it was as if there was a forcefield of hostility around him. "I don’t know. A part of me thought it would be freeing.” But had I? I had wanted company in my misery. I had wanted an end to the charade, to the lies, to the push and pull of unpredictability and guessing games. I had believed—still believe—that Brant could somehow solve it. He solves everything at work, with every project he tackled. Why would this be any different?
"I want to speak with Jillian. I don't believe you."
"How can you love me, want to marry me, and think that I would lie about this?" I fist my hands in my hair, wanting to pull out the long strands in frustration. I step toward him, then stop at the precipice of the house, and the warmth beckons to me, a stark contrast to the cold man who is watching me with wary distrust.
I force myself to close the distance between us and stop in front of him, my bare feet curling into the red brick, toe to toe with his grey dress socks. I lift my gaze and stare up at him, hoping, praying, that the man I love will look inside himself and find the man I can't live without.
His mouth tightens but there in his eyes… there is a hint of softness, of love. He lowers his head and touches his forehead against mine, his eyes closing as we connect. I press my hands to his chest, feeling through the soft fabric of his shirt, and inhale the clean, strong scent of him.
"It's inconceivable, Layana,” he says softly, his breath ghosting over my lips. “What would you do if I told you that you had another person living inside of you?"
"But I don’t." I pull back my head, hating to break the connection, but needing to see into his face. His handsome features are in the shade, and I want to suggest that we go inside, to sit down at the dining room table, but I don’t want to disrupt the progress we’ve made. If I have to stand in the doorway all night, we can.
