“I know that, too.”
“Then whatever else you tell yourself about what you intended, you knew enough to stop.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Caroline used to say I couldn't stand feeling second to anyone.”
Caroline was his former wife. I'd heard Ryan talk about their divorce as though it had happened to him without his participation. The admission startled me because he almost never quoted her except to dismiss her complaints. I waited.
“I think I liked that Natalie came to me about problems with you,” he said. “It made me feel like I knew something you didn't. Then it became more than that.”
I studied his face. There was no triumphant villain standing in front of me, just a man whose insecurity had cost other people dearly. That made what he did seem more ordinary and, in some ways, more disturbing. A person didn't need to hate you to betray you. Sometimes it was enough that he wanted what you had, or wanted to feel bigger while you weren't looking.
“Did you think I'd sign Westbridge because I'd be desperate to keep Natalie?” I asked.
Ryan looked at me then, his eyes finally meeting mine. “I thought if you felt like your life had to change, you might finally see the sale as an opportunity instead of a defeat.”
“That's a yes.”
He didn't argue.
I felt something settle inside me. For weeks I'd looked for a hidden explanation grand enough to match the scale of the betrayal. There wasn't one. Ryan had wanted money, attention, and influence. He'd convinced himself that taking what he wanted wouldn't have consequences because I was loyal enough to absorb them. I left the coffee machine without offering forgiveness. When the meeting resumed, we discussed numbers until the afternoon light began fading from the windows.
The first holiday without Natalie was Thanksgiving. For twelve years we had alternated between our families, argued affectionately about whose stuffing was better, and spent the following morning eating leftovers while decorating the house for Christmas. That year I drove to Maya's with a pie from a bakery because the idea of cooking in my kitchen alone was more than I could manage. Her children ran to the door as soon as they saw my car. My nephew insisted I help him fix a wooden toy he'd broken, and my niece spent half an hour describing the elaborate rules of a game she'd invented. They didn't ask where Natalie was. Maya had explained the separation in simple terms, and children often accept difficult changes more readily when adults give them honest answers without turning them into judges.
At dinner, Dad sat beside me and passed the potatoes with his good hand. Maya's husband, Theo, kept everyone arguing cheerfully about the football game. There was laughter, and there were awkward moments when someone almost said Natalie's name as part of a familiar story. Nobody punished the speaker for it. We let the name exist and the conversation move on. That generosity felt like a gift.
Later, after the children were asleep, Maya and I sat on her back porch beneath a heater. She asked how the mediation had gone. I told her about the business settlement discussions and Natalie's request for counseling.
“Did saying no make you feel better?” she asked.
“No.”