“How long has it been since you last saw him?”
“About four years ago,” she tells me, stirring her fork through a loop of noodles. “When he packed up his things and moved out.”
“Here? He lived here?”
She nods. “Perks of having a good divorce attorney. I think he’s still pissed about that one.”
“Why do you call him Frankie? I thought his name was Matthias.”
“Francis is his middle name. His whole family calls him Frankie, and I did too. Since we met. Though, I don’t think anyone calls him that anymore. He grew out of that nickname. Kind of like he outgrew me.” After a weighty pause, she adds, “Why do you call him Mr. Sheridan?”
“Because that’s what he told me to call him.”
She scoffs. “Of course he would.” She takes a sip of her water. When she looks at me, I see a morose smile on her face. “I’m fine. Really. I think just…seeing him threw me off. And I think he thinks he won or got out of what he thinks was a trap of a marriage. He’s probably right.”
My head rears back in disbelief. “What? Why would you say that?”
“It’s true,” she argues. “If I hadn’t changed my mind and wanted kids, he wouldn’t have had to treat me the way he did, and we wouldn’t have had to get divorced.”
“Grace, you have it so wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“What he did…that’s abuse. He made you feel like it was all your fault when all you did was tell him what you wanted. I mean, yeah, maybe you two wouldn’t have worked out anyway since you ended up wanting different things, but he didn’t need to treat you the way he did. That was a choice he made.”
She sets down her dinner, the remaining oily contents of it now grown cold. She doesn’t necessarily agree with me, but she doesn’t argue the facts I set down in front of her.
“Do you regret divorcing him?”
“No,” she answers quickly. “I want what I want, and yeah, if we can’t agree on something like having a family, then we shouldn’t be together.”
“Then that’s it. Don’t let him get into your head.” She finally smiles a real smile. “And this place that’s rightfully yours? Don’t feel guilty about that either.”
This time she laughs. “I don’t.”
“Good.”
We continue to eat in silence, the clinks of silverware on glass creating a soft buffer we didn’t know we needed. By the time I’ve washed the pile of dishes in the sink, and Grace is sitting on her couch with a few throw blankets draped over her legs, it’s late. Buster has his head resting on her lap, and his eyes flit to me as if he’s attempting to ask me if his owner’s okay.
“I’m going to take Buster out,” I announce. “I’ll be back.”
She stops me, pulling at my hand. I sit next to her, temporarily putting off the duty of walking Buster for his bathroom break. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
She sighs, sinking her cheek into my chest. She doesn’t look at me when she answers me. Instead, she wraps her arm over my stomach. “For taking care of me and not getting upset. And taking care of Buster.” Buster lifts his head and licks Grace’s chin at the sound of his name.
I want to tell her she doesn’t have to thank me for taking care of her or Buster. Not because I don’t appreciate her appreciation, but because I do it all because I want to. I want to take care of her. I want to take care of Buster, who I’m starting to feel like I share ownership of. I want to tell her she means more to me than any other woman has. I want to tell her tonight has made me realize how much I’ve fallen for her. Overlooking the resentment I have toward Mr. Sheridan, the sheer disdain I carry for him every time I walk into work, I pushed all that aside the second I realized Grace needed me more. She needed me more than I needed to be mad and resentful. But I don’t know how to say all this without hooking on the memory of tonight to it. I don’t want to tell her what she means to me only for it to have a bittersweet taste, knowing it came from a painful trip to her past. So instead, I kiss her temple. “You’re welcome.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Andrew
Graceand I spent the weekend in our own self-made nest. Grace’s mood lifted over the course of forty-eight hours, and I learned what it’s like to be a part of a relationship. Something beyond the titles we almost jokingly gave ourselves over a heated moment of car sex. I owned up to the responsibilities that come with being her boyfriend. It took a moment of her weakness to realize how serious this role is. I’m not just some guy she’s sleeping with. I’m her partner in the most secure and devoted way possible. It didn’t scare me to know that I didn’t go back to my apartment the entire weekend, and it sure as hell didn’t scare me when she didn’t even bother to ask me to leave. I felt just as much at home in her condo as I would’ve in my own place.
But now it’s Monday morning. I binged Grace all weekend like a man completely drunk on love. I drank her in, we saw each other in our most vulnerable, naked form, riding the high until I turned the page on what’s waiting for me at the end of it. And I’m dealing with the hangover of it. The aftereffects that make me want to call her and tell her to meet me back at her place. To turn my car around and crawl back into bed with her.
We grazed over what might happen when I see Mr. Sheridan. We ran through a few possibilities, what words I might exchangewith him or whether or not he’d treat me differently in the office, but we didn’t really decide on what the most likely outcome would be. The truth is, Grace doesn’t really know him. She told me if he’s anything like how he was when she met him, he’d probably offer some kind words, congratulate us on our relationship, and step aside so we can go on with our lives. But something tells me this version of her ex-husband she isn’t familiar with wouldn’t think to be amicable or cordial. Something tells me he’ll do everything in his power to make our lives hell.
