He laughed, almost silent. “Yeah, mine either.”
I tapped my mug, thinking. “You ever do this before? Bring someone home, I mean.”
He shook his head. “Not since the divorce. Not even then, if I’m honest. Vivian and I—” He trailed off, as if the words were toxic.
I wanted to press, to poke, to see if I could make him say it out loud, but I didn’t. Instead, I reached across the table, slow, and set my hand on his. Just for a second, just to see if he’d pull away.
He didn’t.
“I’m not trying to fuck up your life,” I said, voice softer than I liked. “But I’m not going to pretend this was nothing, either.”
He gripped my hand, just for a moment, then let go. “Good. I don’t want you to.”
For a while, we just sat there, drinking coffee, legs tangled under the table, like we were two people who knew how to do this.
Then his phone rang.
He stiffened. The ringtone was sharp and officious, something you’d expect from a man who needed to be in control even when he was off the clock. He fumbled for it, glanced at the screen, and his face changed.
He pressed “answer,” put it on speaker. “Vivian,” he said, voice shifting to a register I hadn’t heard before.
The voice that blasted out was pure vinegar and smoke. “Floyd, honey, I thought I’d swing by before work. Brought you scones from the bakery—your favorite, the lemon ones. I’ll be there in fifteen?”
He looked at me, panic raw and naked. “Sure, Viv. I’ll see you then.”
She laughed, brittle. “Perfect. Don’t be in your underwear.”
The line went dead.
We stared at each other over the mugs, the silence suddenly radioactive.
“Well,” I said, “sounds like your morning’s about to get real exciting.”
He ran a hand over his face, then through his hair, making it worse. “I’m sorry. She’s—she does this.”
I shrugged, masking the sting with a crooked smile. “Ex-wives. Always know how to pick their moment.”
He stood up, moving toward the hallway, then stopped. “You should probably—”
“Go,” I finished for him. “Yeah.”
He didn’t say anything, just disappeared down the hall, leaving me alone with the coffee, the sunrise, and the sudden chill in the air.
I finished my cup, put it in the sink, and wiped the counter before heading back to the bedroom for my clothes.
It wasn’t love, not yet. But it was something. And if Vivian thought a lemon scone could scare me off, she hadn’t met a McKenzie.
Back in the bedroom, the sheets were tangled and still smelled like him and me and the half-dozen things we’d done to each other in the dark. I found my jeans half on the floor and started to pull them up, working them over my hips as if every button was a new indictment.
Floyd was in the hall, his voice low and clipped as he talked to Vivian again—something about how the front door would be unlocked, and yes, he was awake, and no, he didn’t need her to bring cream cheese because he still had some from last week.
The normalcy of it made my teeth ache.
In less than an hour, this place would be full of the ex-wife and her lemon scones, the scent of my hands on his skin replaced by baked goods and passive aggression.
He must’ve realized I could hear every word, because he dropped to a whisper for the last bit. I laced my boots and waited for the confrontation, practicing faces in the closet mirror: bored, amused, maybe a little contemptuous. Anything but the truth.
He came in before I could finish the performance. He’d thrown on a polo shirt and khakis, the uniform of suburban camouflage, and he looked like he’d aged a year in the last five minutes.
