“I have to go,” I say quickly. “Thank you for the apology. And for the bagels and coffee.”
“Alley—”
“Merry Christmas, Jensen.” I hang up, dropping the phone in my lap. I sink deeper into the couch, letting the cracks of my pain bleed. Letting the tears soak my cheeks. I stare at my initial on the stocking above the fireplace, the lights flickering in the distance, and let the silence haunt me.
Numb me.
Until I fall asleep.
Chapter Eleven
ALLEY
My hands shakeas I reach for the overpriced glass water bottle. I take a sip, my throat parched, pulse unsteady. My palm slides against the condensation, slick and cold. The large, oval table sits in a modern Midtown office on the thirteenth floor.
The chair is fine. Not comfortable, but not awful either.
God. Why am I thinking about chairs?
Because if I don’t, I might throw up.
It’s been three weeks since Christmas. Two since my lawyer called to say Jensen rejected the divorce terms. I had a choice—drag it out with a fight, or agree to mediation.
He countered by asking for only twenty-five percent.
It’s generous. Too generous. But that’s Jensen—thoughtful, intentional. He knows exactly what to say and how to show up. And somehow, it doesn’t feel manipulative. Because I also know that if I’d signed, he would’ve followed through without question.
I know what most people would say—that he’s trying to do the right thing. Maybe even trying to make up for what happened.
I’m sure that’s part of it, but he wants to see me. He knew I wouldn’t sign, and that this was the only way I’d sit in front of him.
So here I am.
I told myself I wouldn’t cave. That I’d stay strong. I’ve ignored every text and call since Christmas Eve.
I know it’s harsh. Bitchy, even. But I don’t trust myself.
After that call from him, it was all I could do not to get on a plane and come running back. So I ignore him. Pretend he doesn’t send me coffee, or lunch, or flowers. That I don’t read every thoughtful text, or see the pictures he sends from our past. That they don’t wreck me. That it doesn’t feel like the kind of hurt that’s almost beautiful—because he can’t not remember. Just like me.
I just keep praying it stops.
But it doesn’t.
And right now? I’m scared.
It’s been almost five months since I last saw him, and I’ve spent every one of them trying to unlove him. To untangle myself from the want. To not look at the photos of him on Matt’s Instagram, or the video of him doing a polar plunge in Switzerland—where he strips down to his underwear and dives into a freezing lake. How I zoom in on the new abs he’s sporting. As if memorizing him might quiet the ache that never seems to leave.
God, I’ve tried everything. Breathwork. Long walks. Hot yoga with Cooper. Midnight venting with Leo. Girl talk with Vivian.
Little by little, I’ve been getting better. It’s been getting easier. But now I’m sitting here, palms sweaty, stomach in knots, terrified that one look at him will unravel all of it.
I don’t want that.
I glance at the clock above the door. He’s late. The meeting was supposed to start three minutes ago.
The mediator sits quietly as our lawyers chat like they’re old buddies, papers out in front of them.
His lawyer’s familiar. I think he’s one of Jensen’s dad’s friends—maybe he was at our wedding. I’m not sure; doesn’t matter. What I do know is he’ll be the best damn lawyer there is. Between Jensen’s dad being a lawyer and all the high-powered people Matt knows, I’d expect nothing less.
