I nod, unsure how to fill the somewhat awkward silence. We reach the smoothie shop, and when we enter, I’m fully aware I’m spending an unusual period of time with someone I work with outside of work.
We order our smoothies, Noah fights me on the tab even though I preemptively said it was my treat, and before I know it, we’re sitting off to a corner in the quaint shop.
“So, I have a confession to make.”
I look at Noah, the magenta pink straw of my strawberry-banana smoothie hanging off the corner of my mouth. “A confession?”
“I may have asked about you.”
I maintain a quiet poker face and duck my head to conceal the smile creeping its way to my lips. “Did you?” I ask, omitting the fact that I already knew he did. “What did you ask?”
“Just…what your story is. Nothing specific.”
“My story? That sounds pretty specific.” I see a flush spread across his neck, not quite making it to his face where the outline of a five o’clock shadow is forming, making him look a little rugged against the crisp edges of his navy-blue scrub top. “So, what did you find out?”
He takes a long sip of his chocolate-peanut butter smoothie, a staccato-like noise rattling through his straw. “That you’ve worked at Haven General for about four years. And you were married.”
I resist the urge to flinch, hiding any outward reaction to him knowing those details about my personal life. Especially knowing how much of a piece of shit my ex-husband turned out to be.
“I, um…I’m divorced too,” he adds. I wonder if he meant to tell me that, or if he caught onto the little slip of my inability to hide my feelings, but he adds, “It was a year ago.”
“So freshly single, I see.”
“Sure,” he agrees tentatively. “But it was amicable. We separated on good terms.”
“Must be nice.”
His brow pinches together, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening. A clear sign he’s reading into my ambiguous words. “Was it…”
“Rough? To say the least, yes.”
“Sorry.”
I wave a hand, brushing off his apology. “It’s in the past.” A past that reared its ugly head just a few weeks ago. In an attempt to shift the topic away from my failed marriage, I ask, “Was your wife a doctor too?”
“No, she worked for an art gallery,” he answers. “Curating, I think. And…other things I wasn’t really privy to.”
“Understanding the divorce a little more.”
“What?” He laughs, though he sounds genuinely offended. “So, I should know all the details about her work life?”
“I mean, you should at least know what she does,” I answer honestly.
“True,” he agrees. “And I’d usually blame it on my own busy work schedule. Those long hours didn’t help, but I should probably take some responsibility, right?”
“Now was that so hard?”
He laughs, an honest, delighted laugh that bounces off the walls. His warm hand lands on my wrist, something I don’t think he intended on doing. “Thank you for setting me straight. God knows my ex-wife didn’t have the patience for it.”
His thumb brushes against my forearm, and it feels like sandpaper. I don’t know how to shake him off without being rude, so I cross my arms and lean away, creating as much distance as I can.
“You know, relationships are hard,” I admit. “And sometimes, no matter how hard you work at it, it just doesn’t work out.”
He follows my lead, crossing his own arms so his elbows rest on the table. “Are you…in a relationship?”
Yes. The answer is yes. I should be able to say the words: “I have a boyfriend.” I’ve certainly been calling Andrew that to his face. On multiple occasions. So why are the words so hard to utter? My throat suddenly feels tight, fear creating a vise around it, snuffing the words as they’re squeezed out. Because what if, once it’s out in the universe, he realizes it was all a mistake? Frankie sure did. We were happy once, assigning very official titles to each other. Boyfriend. Girlfriend. Fiancé. Husband. Wife. And then the title heard around the world. Ex-wife. Ex-husband. What if at the end of it all, Andrew opts to add “ex” to the beginning of our own established titles?
“Um…”
