"Shortly after your departure." A pause loaded with implication. Like it's my fault. Like I broke something on my way out.
Shortly after. Which means weeks ago. Which means Thorne did this weeks ago and never said a word. Not in any of the careful emails about EPA paperwork. Not in the phone call about bourbon recommendations.
He just did it. Quietly. Without telling me.
"Ms. West, are you listening. This is eight million dollars in annual fees. If there's anything you can do to—"
The gall of this man. “You put me in an impossible position. You used me as a bargaining chip and called it mentorship. You congratulated me on my instincts when you thought I'd traded my integrity for a partnership. And now you're calling me to clean up the mess." I pause. "Do you hear yourself?"
Silence. He's coming up with a new strategy.
"Ivy, I understand you're—"
"I'm not interested, Bill." I look at my name printed at the top of the lease. Ivy West, Environmental Law. "I can't help you. I won't help you. Don't call again."
I hang up and breathe through my nose until the anger settles. I stare at my phone. The last call before Bill was Thorne.
He’d cancelled the contract weeks ago—had done it shortly after I moved out. He didn't tell me. Hasn’t said a word.
Because he didn't do it for credit. He didn't do it to win me back or to prove something. He did it and then he let it sit there, unclaimed, with no expectation of anything in return.
I set the phone face down on the hardwood and sit with that for a moment.
And he’s on his way back. He's somewhere past the Ontario border right now. He mentioned wrapping up the last of Quebectwo days ago. I've been doing the math without meaning to, like the way you check a weather forecast you can't stop refreshing even though you know it won't change.
We talk most nights now. But it’s safe topics, careful questions about my firm prep and his relocation home. Last week, he called to tell me about a bourbon he thought I'd like. We talked for an hour about nothing important. Small steps. Careful ones. But steps forward.
The front door crashes open with teenage enthusiasm.
"Ivy!" Madison's voice carries that pitch that means news, big news. "Guess what?"
She's in the doorway, backpack sliding off her shoulder, phone clutched like it holds state secrets. Her face is flushed, eyes bright with something between excitement and mischief.
"Thorne's back! Like, back, back. He got in this morning.”
My pen stops moving. My hand flattens against the paper. What if six weeks of careful emails and safe phone calls means we've circled back to acquaintances? What if he's moved on?
"Back?" I keep my voice neutral, gaze on the insurance paperwork.
"From Quebec! For good!" She drops her backpack and rushes over, nearly stepping on my zoning permits. "I texted him asking if Tracy and I could come swim, and he said yes.” She's practically vibrating. "Can you drive us? Please?"
I sit back on my heels, buying time by straightening document stacks. He’s back.
"He said it was okay?" I ask.
"Yes! I told you, I already texted him." She drops cross-legged beside me, grinning. “Tracy is going to die.”
The pitch in her tone snags my attention. “Um, why?”
"She has the biggest crush on him. It's hilarious.” Madison's nose wrinkles. "And gross. I mean, he is my half-brother andold.”
I smack her arm playfully. “Hey, he’s only a couple of years older than me.”
“It’s okay, women age better than men.”
“All I’m hearing is that I’m a decrepit lady.”
“I wouldn’t say decrepit…,” her grin turns wicked, “yet.”
