A snake, detailed and graceful, coils around his arm and disappears beneath his sleeve, entwined with delicate, unexpected florals. It’s beautiful. Deep. Unexpected. Like him. My fingers ache to follow it, to digest the story it weaves against his skin.
And now, those forearms consume me. They were never my weakness—until Sam. The way his muscles move, the quiet strength in every motion… It stirs something I can’t ignore. Something that feels too much, too soon, and far too real.
“Good evening, ladies.” His voice is low and warm, brushing over me like a velvet ribbon stretched across bare skin. “Olivia, you’re stunning.”
I shiver. “Thank you.”
The dress that had felt too plain suddenly feels too much—light blue paisley halter, soft fabric clinging just enough. I tug at the skirt, pretending to smooth it while my pulse races.
I grab my purse from the bed, and we leave my friends behind with their laughter and promises to meet up later on Crescent Street. Erin insists we go out with a bang—or more like, she’s already planning her next conquest.
The cab ride is short, filled with easy conversation, and my nerves settle into a warm, steady buzz of excitement.
He takes me to a small, landmark restaurant I’ve always meant to try. The lighting is low and amber, the air scented with rich, roasted herbs. He talks about the chef with genuine admiration, and I realize again how much he loves what he does. It’s rare, someone who’s found their calling, so young at that, and wears it like a second skin.
We order wine, and just when I’m starting to relax, he surprises me. “How long have you been divorced?”
The question lands softly but sure, and my muscles stiffen. Still, I don’t want to hide from him. He was so open with me yesterday, and I’m at ease in sharing this with him.
“Eight months. We were separated about that long before.”
His expression is open, listening, not probing. “You were married a long time.”
“Yes. We met at university.” I pause, searching for words that make the truth easier. “It was good for a long while. Heck, evengreat. But we drifted apart, wanted different things. It sounds so cliché.” A nervous laugh bubbles out of me.
He doesn’t chuckle to join me in lightening the mood or to fill the now uneasy silence. His restraint invites honesty.
“Pete was consumed by work. He’s an investment banker—successful, ambitious, always chasing the next deal. I tried to be understanding, but somewhere along the way, I disappeared. I was very much alone. I felt invisible.” I pause, glancing down at the white linen tablecloth. “When I tried… God, I sound so whiny.”
Sam’s hand covers mine, steady and sure. “No, you don’t. You sound human.” His gaze is warm and genuine. “Continue. I’m not judging. I’ve no clue what it was like to be in your shoes.”
My laugh is half-hearted at best, though I’m grateful for his understanding. “I kept trying to fix it. Talking, compromising, therapy. Even pretending things were fine. But it wasn’t. I realized during a trip to New York that unless things changed, I would be alone and unhappy. I was at an interior design business conference and Pete was supposed to come with me, but he’d canceled, again.”
“The trip alone was exactly what I needed to realize we were no longer partners. We were amicable, more like friends living together. Sometimes only acquaintances. I didn’t want that for my life.”
A marriage takes work, both people committed to putting the other person first, checking their egos at the door. I wasn’t perfect and had my moments, but Pete was no longer committed, even if he didn’t know it.
Even in my silence as I contemplate the days, weeks, and months that led to the demise of my marriage, Sam doesn’t interrupt. He simply watches me, and his quiet attention feels more intimate than a touch.
“I left. Not out of anger or even sadness. I left because I wasn’t living. And as cliché as this sounds too, life is too short to waste even one breath.”
He nods, gaze thoughtful. Sam opens his mouth, then closes it, a question on the tip of his tongue, and it’s easy to guess what’s on his mind.
I smile, if only to coax it out of him. “Go on. You can ask.”
He smiles hesitantly. “Was he unfaithful?”
I love the way he words it. Sam’s a romantic at heart. Not cheating, unfaithful. It suggests so much more than the physical act of sex. And isn’t that the truth.
“No.” I adamantly shake my head. The question is common. “This might sound strange but somehow that made it harder. There was no villain to blame. Just…distance.”
“Don’t worry, I don’t want to know,” he says, voice low and steady.
My brow lifts, curiosity stirring. Not sure what he means.
Then his eyes find mine—dark, unwavering, intent. “Olivia, I don’t want to know, let alone even think, about you with him. Or with any other man.”
The words land like a touch, delicate but sure. I swallow against the lump rising in my throat, my pulse tripping. “Oh.”
