He gives a low whistle and shakes his head. “Man’s a saint.”
“I’ll see you Thursday.” I’m already at the door. “Wish me luck with the client.”
“Luck’s got nothing to do with it, darlin’. You’ve got this.”
I walk out into the sunshine, heels clicking on the pavement, muscles aching, heart full. I don’t need a man. I need momentum. And for the first time in a long time, I’ve got it.
Jonah can keep playing matchmaker all he wants. I’m not looking.
2
OLIVIA
The house is dark save for muted sounds and a dim stream of light coming from the back. My rented townhouse in the Annex, one of the oldest and most prominent neighborhoods in downtown Toronto, still feels like neutral territory. Mine but not mine.
Three streets over, Pete lives in our old house.Hishouse now. As much as I loved it, I didn’t want any part of our old life.
This three-bedroom executive rental was a splurge. The price gave me pause, but when I hesitated, Pete didn’t. As an investment banker, he makes money hand over fist, and even with all the difficult conversations that came with the divorce, he withheld nothing. It’s ironic, really. He’s never been more generous than he is now that we’re apart.
I pad into the family room and find Paige lying on the leather sofa, earbuds in, watchingThe Walking Deadon her tablet. Her long brown hair spills over the arm like a chocolate waterfall.
My heart skips. It’s been a week since she was last here.
Shared custody is fair on paper, but the seven days without my kids is like slow starvation. And somehow, the texts, oddvideo chats, and practically nonexistent calls never seem to fill the empty space within me when they are with their dad.
Despite the current state of the relationship with my daughter, I adore Paige and miss her like crazy when she’s with Pete. We’ve been “a work in progress” since she hit double digits—what mother-daughter duo isn’t?
But since the separation, we’ve drifted further. Hormones, growing independence, and the aftershocks of a fractured family have created a chasm I’m still trying to cross.
“Hey, sweetie.” I lean down and kiss her smooth, soft hair, inhaling the familiar scent of coconut conditioner.
She barely glances up, expression somewhere between annoyance and neutrality. Sometimes I’m persona non grata, the villain in her version of our story. I’ve tried explaining that leaving her father was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
I did try to save the marriage with several attempts at therapy, individual and couples. She doesn’t want to hear it and doesn’t hide her anger and frustration at my leaving her father.
Pete’s the saint; I’m the pariah.
“How was your game last night?” I perch on the coffee table.
“Okay.” Abruptly, she reaches to click off the lamp, plunging us into darkness.
“Hey, Paige.” I blink, adjusting to the dark. Flicking the lamp back on, I meet her glare. “Not nice, kiddo. Let’s try again. How was your volleyball game?”
“It was fine.” Her tone’s softer this time. Gathering her books, she hugs them to her chest. “Um, I’m going to do homework.”
Her go-to escape. She shifts toward the door, eager to flee, and I touch her shoulder gently, turning her to face me.
“Hey.” Despite my frustration, fatigue at this routine, and hurt feelings, I remind myself I’m the adult and try to act like one. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
“Will you sit with me while I eat? I’m just making a salad. It won’t take long. You can tell me about last week or you can do your homework at the table.”
As if carrying the troubles of the world, she releases a long, theatrical sigh. I force a smile, parking my exasperation because it’s useless.
“No talking.” She chews at the inside of her cheek.
“Just a little.” The soft plea in my tone hints at my sense of tiptoeing past a grizzly. “Minimum chatter. I promise.”
