Cecilia stood beneath his umbrella, perfectly dry, one hand pressed dramatically to her forehead. Her beige coat was buttoned wrong, her glossy nails wrapped around a purse that looked too expensive for a secretary’s salary.
“I can sit in the back, Mr. Sterling,” she whispered. “I don’t want to cause trouble.”
David looked at her with a softness I had not seen directed at me in years.
“You’re not causing trouble,” he said.
Then he turned to me, and the softness disappeared.
“Catherine is just being sensitive.”
Sensitive.
That was his favorite word when my pain became inconvenient. Sensitive meant jealous. Sensitive meant irrational. Sensitive meant I was supposed to swallow disrespect and call it maturity.
“I am your wife,” I said. “You are asking me to sit behind your secretary in my own car.”