I control a snuffle that tries to escape. “You did when you said you’d….” I trail off.
“Ask me anything and I’ll tell you the truth.”
“A lie by omission is still a lie, Aiden,” I tell him, feeling tremendously sad. “I need to go now. I…I don’t feel good.”
That’s the truth. I’m crumbling. Seeing him again is hard. Knowing I lost him is harder to swallow when he’s in front of me.
“May I drive you? I’ll bring you here in the morning and?—”
“It’s you who’s making me feel like this,” I burst out. “Please. I’ll see you on Friday.”
He looks defeated as he steps away from my car.
He follows me all the way to Katya’s place. He doesn’t approach me when I go inside. But I know he stays until Katya comes home because that’s the first thing she asks.
“What’s he doing out there?”
“I may have had a bit of a nervous breakdown,” I confess, and then tell her about our conversation outside Little Luminaries.
“God! Well, he looks like he’s lost weight, and I knowyou’vedropped more than a few pounds. So…you’re both miserable.” She nods appreciatively. “So far, standard operating procedure for a divorce.”
I chuckle. “And you should know.”
“I should. A client once told me that getting divorced was the best diet program.”
I let my eyes wander to the window.Is he still there?
“You love him, Mia, that didn’t just die, so it’s normal for you to feel the way you do. And he loves you, that didn’t die with that kiss he shared with Diana, either.” Katya kisses my cheek. “Divorces are like a war; no one wins them, butafterthere may be peace, and that’s the best outcome.”
“Peace would be nice.”
“Come on, how do you feel about pasta carbonara?” She wraps an arm around me and walks me to the kitchen, away from the window, from where I can check if Aiden is still outside.
“I have very good feelings about pasta carbonara,” I answer.
“Excellent. Let’s start with some bacon, and get this show on the road.”
After dinner, when I peek out of the window, Aiden is gone.
CHAPTER 16
Aiden
She looks beautiful. My wife. The one I’m about to set free, so in a few months, once the paperwork is resolved, she’ll be my ex-wife. The idea of living without her is debilitating, but to win her back, I know, I have to let her go.
“Coffee?” she asks as she gestures for me to sit at the kitchen island.
“Yes, thank you.” The words come out hoarse. I hate this formality between us.
She takes her time making coffee.
I watch her, inhale her, consume her. I want her so badly. But this isn’t about what Iwant. It’s about what sheneeds.
She sets my coffee with just a little milk and no sugar in front of me. She stands on the other side of the island, sips her coffee, which she takes black.
“Thank you for talking to me.” There is that polite bullshit again.
She smiles at me—it’s hollow, cosmetic, the kind she gave to my family. Now, she’s giving it to me,otheringme…making me a stranger.
