My husband left me.
It’s over.
“The thing with grief, Mia,”—Cristiano holds my gaze—“it’s not neatly packaged and has no expiration date. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
My eyes sting again. “I’m just tired of pretending like it doesn’t hurt.”
“Then don’t.”
We fall into silence again. Outside, the wind howls across the Vermont hills, but inside, by the fire, something inside me begins—just barely—to settle.
“Tell me about your fiancée,” I whisper.
“Lily was a nurse.” His eyes are fixed on the fire. “Volunteered to take a holiday shift so her colleague—who had little kids—could stay home. Her car hit black ice on the way to work. She was gone before the ambulance arrived.”
My heart aches for him—because his loss dwarfs mine.
Mine is earned through my poor choices, by ignoring every alarm bell screaming inside me when I married Aiden.
No one could have prevented Cristiano’s loss; it was an accident that stole so much.
“We were planning a spring wedding.” He finally looks at me, and on his face, I see the echo of grief and the struggle to make peace with his pain. “It’s part of me now. Doesn’t mean it has toownme. And it doesn’t mean I can’t find joy again.”
A long pause.
“I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for six years,” I admit.
“And now you’re exhaling,” he replies gently.
“Yes.”
I let the bourbon burn its way down my throat, then lean back in the chair, the warmth from the fire starting to seep into my bones. I feel the tightness in my chest loosen, just a little.
“I didn’t expect to feel safe tonight,” I concede.
“I know. But you are.”
The guest room is simple. A wide bed with a navy quilt. A reading chair in the corner with a knit throw. A window that frames the moonlit stretch of the snowy pasture beyond.
I sit on the edge of the bed and finally let the full-body sobs shake through me. Not just for what I left behind, but for everything I gave that no one ever gave back. The loyalty. The affection. The trust.
I cry until I’m empty.
I check my phone. It’s been on mute.
There are fifteen missed calls from Aiden. Two from Edith. One from Nelson. There are several text messages, all of which I don’t read. I block everyone with the last name Winter. I don’t need to talk to any of them.
Aiden can now talk to me only through Katya, my lawyer.
That thought eases my mind because it means I can heal, or at least start the process, without him scraping at my wounds. If he reaches out with apologies, it will split me wide open. If he ignores me, signs the papers, and marries Diana, it will destroy me.
I can’t win this war that I didn’t start, but was dragged into.
I go into the bathroom.
It’s ridiculously modern, a contrast to the rusticity of the farmhouse.
I take a shower. I packed a change of clothes and toiletries in my tote bag. I get ready for bed like I do every night. Brush teeth. Apply serum. Put on moisturizer.
