She was quiet for a long moment.
"Lonely," she finally said. "Your kind of kindness felt really, really lonely."
Lonely.I'd been trying to protect her, and instead I'd made her feel abandoned. Just like everyone else in her life had done.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm so sorry, Claire."
"I know." She turned to look out the window. "I'm not saying I'm over it. I'm not saying everything is fine. But I'm here. And Millie needs me. So let's start with that."
The hospital came into view ahead of us. I pulled into the parking garage, found a spot, and turned off the engine.
Neither of us moved to get out.
"Nathaniel," Claire said, and the sound of my name in her voice made my chest ache. "What happens after we see Millie? After all of this is over?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "But I know what I want to happen."
"What's that?"
I turned to face her. She was so close, close enough to touch, close enough to see the depth in her hazel eyes, close enough to count every freckle on her nose.
"I want to figure it out together," I said. "If you'll let me."
She didn't answer right away. Just looked at me, her expression unreadable, her eyes searching mine for something I hoped she'd find.
Then, slowly, she reached out and laid her hand over mine on the center console.
"Let's go see Millie," she said softly. "And then... We'll talk."
It wasn't a yes. It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't a promise that everything would be okay.
But it was a start.
And after seven days of silence, after months of war, after years of believing that love was something that could be controlled and managed and contained, a start felt like everything.
We got out of the car and walked toward the hospital entrance, our hands not quite touching, our futures not quite certain.
But for the first time since Claire had walked out of my study, I felt something I'd almost forgotten how to feel.
Hope.
18.Claire
Ihad rehearsed a hundred versions of this conversation in my head, and not one of them started with me crying in a hospital hallway while a divorcee wiped my tears with his thumb.
The elevator ride to the pediatric floor was the longest forty-five seconds of my life. Nathaniel stood beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body, far enough that we weren't touching. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The numbers climbed slowly—2, 3, 4—each ding marking another moment I had to figure out what to say.
"You're nervous," he observed quietly.
"What gave it away? The fact that I’ve been holding my breath since we got in the car, or the way I'm gripping my purse like it owes me money?"
A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Now that you mention it..."
"Great, just give me a moment to breathe,"
The elevator doors opened, and the familiar antiseptic smell of the pediatric ward washed over us. I'd been here before, just once, after the hospital confrontation, but the memory of that visit was tangled up with so much emotion that walking these halls again felt like returning to a crime scene.
"She's been asking for you," Nathaniel said as we walked. "Every day."
