“What do you want?” I cry out, and some of the teachers walking out look at us.
Burlington is a small town, and the gossipmongers have already distributed thebig, juicynews. They don’tknow about the Christmas Eve debacle, but they know that our marriage is over, that he’s having an affair with Diana Valentine, that the Winters are thrilled to have me out of their family.
Some colleagues, parents, and acquaintances are kind about it—they say nothing, offer gentle smiles, and pretend not to notice the storm beneath the surface. Others pity me, tilting their heads and speaking in soft, sympathetic tones that make my skin crawl. And then there are those who indulge in theschadenfreude, their eyes gleaming with the thrill of watching my marriage fall apart—as if my heartbreak is delicious news, not the slow unraveling of a life.
“I want some time with you. I want to show you that I, that we, deserve a second chance.”
He speaks slowly but confidently. It irks me.
“No.” I love that word. It’s succinct and doesn’t take up a lot of energy. Also, it’s clear and requires no explanation.
“Mia, baby?—”
“No,” I hiss it this time.
It’s been seven hours and thirty days since—I feel like fucking Sinead O’Connor—since New Year’s Eve when we spoke.
He’s been sending flowers with notes to Katya’s place. We keep the flowers; I throw away the notes.
Katya wants me to at least read them. I said…no. I can’t. I so desperately want to return to him—get my life with him back— that I don’t need the temptation,because if I let him back into my life, then I know I will lose what remains of me.
At least now, after the hurt becomes less and the pain fades, I can go back to being the Mia I knew, the one I used to be proud of, not this shell of a woman who cries all night in her bed and then goes to work, looking for solace in the company of happy children, hoping their optimism rubs off on her.
“One cup of?—”
A sob escapes me, and he goes pale.
“I—”
Tears fill my eyes. “You can’t just show up…you can’t just….” I start sucking in deep breaths.
He purses his lips, nods.
I see that I’m not the only one with moist eyes. “I’m so sorry. You’re right. But…please, Mia, can we talk? Just for a bit.”
I start counting from one to ten inside my head. A grief counselor had taught me that when my parents died, a way to bring myself back to the moment, to get out of my pain.
“Friday,” I whisper. That’ll give me at least three days to prepare myself for him. “Five? Will that be okay for you with work?”
Why the hell am Istillbeing so considerate?
“Whatever time is right for you, will be fine with me.”
He never said that while we were married, I think caustically. And I hate that my mind is crowded with meanness.
“Come to Katya’s cottage. I don’t want to meet…people are talking.”
He steps away from my Chevy Bolt. “I know. And I’m sorry for that.”
I give a tense shrug, jaw clenched. “I…are you seeingher? People say you’re together, and if you are, then?—”
“No. Not seeing her. Told her to find another job. Her contract runs out at the end of March. I can’t get her out any earlier.” He speaks quickly, like he needs to get all the information outfast, fast, fast, before I pull the plug on this conversation.
“I don’t know if I believe you.”
Okay, so that hits him real hard. I can see it. I hate myself some more. Why am I hurting this man? I don’t want to cause anyone pain, and yet I like, just a little, to see him in distress, like he needs to feel how I do. It’s stupid. It’s unhealthy. It’s not the path to healing.
“I’d never lie to you, Mia.”
