October 16

The roses are the first thing I notice; his smile, the second. Both are cringe-worthy because of their assumption. I’m already pissed off, not only because he’s here, but because he let himself into the house. Note to self: change the security code. I have to give myself a little pep talk, stay focused on the grand prize of my ex-husband fading into oblivion. Just a few unpleasant moments—like being under the dentist’s drill—and then the cavity that’s caused me so much aggravation will be gone.

“You look beautiful.” His gaze crisscrosses over me.

I feel his eyes like little barbs poking into my skin. I set my Sea Bag on the kitchen table, looking around for Murphy, who is nowhere to be seen. He never liked Paul. Smart cat.

“Still bringing work home with you?” Paul nods toward the bag. “You were always dedicated.”

Unlike how you were as a husband. “What is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

“We were a good team, weren’t we, Linnie? In the business, but also as husband and wife.”

I am not in the mood for a walk down memory lane. Not when it had some significant potholes, like oh, say, all those times he was screwing one of our clients. “I’d appreciate it if you’d get to the point.”

He blinks, like he’s surprised at my tone. “Can we go in the living room and sit down?”

“All right. Fine.”

Hesitating, he looks down at the bouquet in his hands. Under different circumstances, I might have gotten the Waterford vase out of the top cupboard, filled it with water and displayed the flowers on the center of my kitchen table. But this is my ex-husband, and both he and the roses are unwanted. I have no desire to keep either one.

Paul lays the flowers on the kitchen counter and walks into the living room. I wait until he takes a seat on the couch, and I sit on the floral armchair across from him, kicking off my pumps and tucking my feet underneath me.

He stares down at the carpet, flicks a piece of lint off his pants. “I guess I’ll just come right out and say it.” A pause, and then a slow lift of his head, his face etched with determination. “I’m still in love with you.”

I’d prepared myself that he might say something like this, while marveling that now, after all this time, he could have the audacity to think I’d want to hear these words from a mouth that kissed someone else while that mouth was married to my mouth. Right after we had split up, when I was feeling very broken myself, I would have taken him back. But I put the pieces of me back together to the point where I felt whole enough to risk falling apart again—with someone else. Someone who made me feel things I didn’t know I could. Someone who was worth the pain of losing.

And even if there had been no one else...there would not be Paul.

“I made a terrible mistake,” he continues. “I realize it, now. I’ve changed my mind. I want you back.” He exhales slowly. “I want us back.”

I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to be sitting here, doing this. I cast my gaze around the room, as though I might find inspiration for the right things to say in the beige drapes, the fireplace, the oak corner tables.

“Paul...you need to listen to me. You’re not the only one who’s gone through some changes. I’m a different person now. I don’t see you the same way. You may have decided you want me back, but I’ve decided the opposite. I don’t want you.”

The pleading intensity in his eyes fades into pain. I have to think this is what he saw in my eyes when he told me he wanted a divorce.

“Madeline. I believe we can save this, salvage what we had...”

“There is nothing to save, Paul. It’s over.”

His lips bunch up as if he’s tasted something sour. “It’s because of your handyman, isn’t it?”

I’m stopped cold, as if someone threw a glass of ice water in my face. The vibe in the room goes from tepid to turbulent. So much for being prepared for what he had to say. I never could have anticipated this. How the hell would he know about Jack? I struggle to keep my composure. “What are you talking about?”

He’s practically spitting the words at me. “Christ, Linnie...I would have thought you’d have higher standards than that.”

“It is none of your business who I choose to date.” A disturbing thought seizes me. “Are you—my God, Paul, have you been stalking me?”

“Jesus Christ. Give me a little credit, will you? Reaching out to you by phone...yes. Hiding in your rhododendrons and peeking in the window? No.” He narrows his eyes at me, his face darkening. “Did you invite him over on purpose? Knowing I’d run into him?”

“Invite him...” My stomach lurches. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. “Jack was here?”

“He was. You weren’t expecting him?”

“No.” My voice is brittle, like it might break. Like I might break. Jack was here. And then I zero in on the was here. He must have left because of Paul. “Did you tell him who you were?”

“Yes.”

“What did you say to him?” It is a small miracle that I’m able to verbally edit what THE FUCK did you say to him? but somehow, I do.

“You sound concerned, Madeline.” He looks at me, unblinking. He seems to be enjoying my stress, and fresh loathing for him sets my blood ablaze.

“Tell me what happened, or this conversation is over.”

A sigh of annoyance. “I told your handyman the truth—we’d been in frequent contact, you invited me over, and that I was looking forward to spending more time with you.”

The very implication that he and I are on the path to some sort of reconciliation makes me shudder. I can only imagine what Jack felt, hearing this, and I have no doubt Paul laced his words with confidence, arrogance. Add to that the bouquet of romantic red roses. Oh my God. Jack.

I have to call him. But first—I need to get rid of my ex-husband. For good.

“Paul,” I say, unwrapping each word as delicately as though they were eggs. “You need to hear me. Really hear me. Our relationship was over the moment you decided to sleep with someone else.”

“You wanted me back. You said so.” There is a growing desperation in his tone, because he knows no matter what he says, I am not going to care.

Just like he didn’t care when I begged him not to leave me.

“I am not out to hurt you, Paul. Truly, I’m not. But even if your feelings for me have returned—and I honestly think it’s more about you being lost than being in love—you need to find a way to let them go. To let me go. Please. If you cared about me at all, please, just do that for me.”

Unwanted tears spring to my eyes. God damn, I don’t want to cry in front of my ex, but I just want him to leave my house, my life. All I can think of is getting to Jack.

Paul stands up slowly. He raises his gaze to meet mine, and I am startled to see that I am not the only one whose eyes are brimming. Something passes between us, then: a rush of memories from when we both loved and liked each other, spiraling into the realization that we’d both walked far, far away from that place and would never find our way back.

“Okay,” he says dully. “Okay, Linnie. You have my word. I can give you that much.”

I wait until Paul has backed out of my driveway, and then I rush into the kitchen to get my phone. Murphy appears, slinking around my legs and purring as though he knows what has happened and approves. My fingers feel thick, clumsy—I’m shaking as I scroll through my contacts and make the call.

One ring. Two. Three. He answers. His voice is low, flat. Defeated. Oh, Jack! Once you hear what I have to say, it will be all right. It will!

“Hi,” I say, already breathless with eagerness. “I’m so glad I reached you.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Because I had to make sure you understood.”

“You don’t have to explain anything, Madeline. I understand.”

“No, I don’t think you do. Listen, Jack, I know you saw my ex tonight. I agreed to let him come over, but only so I could make it clear that I wanted him to stay out of my life.”

“I was under the impression he was out of your life.”

Ughh. Shit. I never actually shared with Jack how Paul kept contacting me. But in my defense, it wasn’t like Jack and I were in a typical relationship.

“He was. He is. After he and his girlfriend broke up, he started texting and calling me. He was relentless. But that’s over now.” There is silence. “Jack?”

“Yeah.”

“You came over to my house.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He makes a deep, tired sigh—like it’s coming from the very core of him, where he’s been carrying it. A sigh that has weight.

“You wanted to see me.” I say it because he doesn’t. Words, like sighs, have weight.

“I wanted...I wanted to tell you goodbye.”

I sink down into a kitchen chair. Murphy springs up into my lap, rubbing his head on my arm. “Goodbye?”

“My father’s opening a store in Concord, New Hampshire. He’s asked me to run it. I said yes.”

“But—”

“I know you and I aren’t together, but I just thought I should...I don’t know. Guess I felt like I should say goodbye, since I’m moving.” His voice sharpens. “It’s probably better this way, over the phone. Easier.”

I pet and pet Murphy, running my hand up his striped tail as he arches his back. He doesn’t seem to notice the teardrops falling into his fur. I manage to form words and speak them. “You’re on better terms with your dad, then.”

“Yeah—we’ve got a ways to go, but things are definitely better.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks. Callaway—”

My heart clutches, flutters, at this mention of my name. “Yes?”

“I want to wish you the best. You’re a great person—a really great person—and you deserve to be happy.”

These are things you say to someone you don’t plan on seeing again. I can’t listen anymore, don’t want to hear him say goodbye. I choke out thank you and end the call just before the flood of tears, thinking my sobs will frighten Murphy off my lap.

He stays.