Stop comparing them, I tell myself firmly.Stop looking for reasons to forgive him.
My stomach churns—that same unsettled feeling I've been fighting all week. I shift in the chair, trying to find a comfortable position, and catch a whiff of something from the break room. Coffee, maybe. The smell hits me wrong, making bile rise in my throat.
"Restroom?" I ask Donna, my voice tight.
She points down a hallway. "Second door on the left."
I make it just in time, my breakfast making an unwelcome reappearance. When the wave passes, I lean against the cool tile wall, breathing carefully through my nose.
Stress. Has to be stress. Between school, Tucker, and this whole debacle, no wonder I lost my muffins.
I rinse my mouth and splash water on my face, avoiding my reflection. When I finally look up, I barely recognize myself. Dark circles under my eyes. Hair escaping from its ponytail. I look exhausted and unwell, and exactly how I felt during the worst parts of my marriage.
You're not there anymore, I remind myself.You're rebuilding. You're in school. You're moving forward.
Even if forward apparently means running into my two-night stand at every turn.
When I return to the reception area, Donna is waiting with a bottle of water and a small pack of crackers.
"You look pale," she says, her tone softer than before. "Figured you might need these."
The unexpected kindness makes my throat tight. "Thank you."
"For what it's worth," Donna continues, her voice low enough that it won't carry, "I've worked for Tim Stag for almost thirtyyears. I've watched Tucker grow up. That boy can be thoughtless—too used to everything coming easy. But he's not cruel. When he realizes he's messed up, he tries to fix it."
I don't know how to respond to that, so I just nod and open the crackers. The bland taste settles my stomach slightly.
Tries to fix it…Donna’s words dislodge a memory of my ex-husband, and his face when I confronted him with the paperwork I’d found after his secret vasectomy.
Josh had been in the kitchen portioning out meals—identical containers of bland chicken, broccoli, and brown rice. I had been digging in a drawer looking for insurance cards when I saw the benefits statement. I asked him what it meant, and he shrugged, not looking up from his containers. “You know my background,” he said to me. “I fixed it.”
Not angry. Not defensive. Certainly not a man who was open and honest with his wife.
My husband was supposedly a “good man” who overcame a rough start in life. So Donna referring to Tucker as a “good man” does nothing to soften my response.
"We barely know each other," I say, not sure why I’m continuing this conversation with a stranger.
Donna gives me a look that says she doesn't believe that for a second, then returns to her desk, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my statistics notes.
Mel rolls out of the conference room looking like she might explode with whatever news she got in there. We make it to the elevator before she squeals and claps her hands.
"He basically offered me the job!" she says the moment the doors slide shut. "Pending my passing the bar, but he said everything looked excellent and he'd love to have me join the team."
"That's amazing, Mel!" I force enthusiasm into my voice, genuinely happy for her despite the emotional exhaustion dragging at me. "You deserve it."
"I know!" She laughs, bright and unrestrained. "God, I can't believe it. Stag Law. Do you know how many doors this opens?"
I do. I've spent enough time helping her prep to know Stag Law represents some of the biggest names in professional athletics. Including a hockey team I wish I could ignore.
"When do you start?"
"After the bar exam. Probably early August." Her excitement dims slightly. "Which means I'll need to move out sooner than we planned. The firm has connections to accessible housing, and I want to get settled before I start.”
My stomach sinks. I'd known this was coming, but hearing it confirmed makes it real. I'll be alone again, trying to figure out how to build a life that doesn't feel like I'm just treading water. Trying to forget a man who was supposed to scratch an itch and has now bored into my psyche.
"That's great," I manage. "You should definitely take advantage of their resources."
"I'm sorry to leave you with the apartment situation," Mel says, her practical brain already problem-solving. "I can help you find a new roommate, or?—"
