A warm smile spreads across his face, his eyes going thoughtful. "We'll figure it out. And if my baby's anything like me, they'll love you too. From the day they see you. Madly."
I can't help the frown as I stare at the ceiling. "I don't know about that. I'll be the mistress who became the stepmother. The villain in all their bedtime stories."
Ben shakes his head, a faint crease between his brows. "No. I'll tell them the truth, that I loved you from the start, that I was the one who fucked it up, that you saved me anyway, and that you're a saint for taking their stupid daddy back."
I press a kiss into his hair, and get up because it's easier than planning something neither one of us has a clue about.
"I'll go make breakfast."
41
I've only got a few days left in this apartment, so there are moving boxes everywhere.
I decided to donate most of the ruins of my old life, but I kept one thing—the snow globe from Paris with the tiny Eiffel Tower trapped in eternal glitter Richard and I bought for our first anniversary.
I don't keep it for him, but for the version of us that lived inside that globe.
Maybe I should fully move on, but I think that even when your relationship goes to wreck, there are moments you'd want to remember. Otherwise, it all becomes a tragic investment in hope.
What's the point of loving anyone at all if you can't remember them for the good stuff they gave you, including the lessons?
So I think it's okay. And surprisingly, Ben agreed.
He's been helping me pack, lifting all the heavy boxes, unscrewing furniture, making jokes and pretending that chipping my wedding frame was a coincidence.
New Year's Eve is coming up, so not an ideal time to make such a big shift, but now it's obvious—Ben isn't moving to New York. We aren't moving to New York, because he needs to stay.
We fought—god,did we fight—over where I should live.
He insisted on getting us an apartment, but aftereverything that's happened, I need to feel like I have stability under my feet that doesn't rely on anyone else. And he... he needs to sort out Lisa.
The past week has been anything but easy. Ben keeps running up whenever Lisa needs something, and she needs somethingall the time.
Still, I tell myself that I can do this, stay patient. She must be all nerves and it's understandable.
After I took her number from Ben—he thought it was a bad idea, but I took it anyway—I texted her. Asked if she would even talk to me and apologized for how I handled the whole love-confession moment. No response.
Same with Richard, who keeps our marriage half-alive by pretending he's the corpse, even though his Insta shows him very much alive: tan, grinning, yacht-side in Seattle.
Oh, and toasting his rebirth with all the women he once told me I shouldn't worry about.
Merriam-Webster should list that under "classic."
So Ben and I have to make the best of whatever we have now.
"Are you done with the patch?" I yell from the bathroom, loud enough for it to carry around the corner. "I'm starving. In-N-Out?"
"Sounds good," he calls from the kitchen. He's been there for the past thirty minutes, patching the hole in the wall he punched when frustration got the better of him. "I'm almost done."
I'd kill for something small, a pastry maybe, since mystomach has decided it'll be dramatic these days, but Ben loves it, so In-N-Out it is.
I swipe on mascara, leaning too close to the mirror. Red lipstick next.
Then I hear a noise in the other room—different, off—so I pause, lipstick still in hand.
"Ben?" I call, pricking my ear.
No answer, just the murmur of conversation I can't place. Two voices? One deep, familiar. One tiny, shrill.
