“Is that how long it’s been since your divorce?”
I still. “That’s how many years have passed since my wife left me.”
Turn away. Stop talking. Every atom in my body begs me to throw up our defenses. But how can I when doubt creeps into her features? Time and time again, she gives me the space and patience I don’t deserve.
My next words are thick after sitting dormant for years. They’re spoken like a warning, a red flag on why she should see me as nothing more than the father of her child. “I don’t blame her for leaving me.”
She frowns, more questions lining her face—questions I want to answer and avoid, causing a civil war inside my head.
Ding.
Saved by the fucking bell.
“Dinner’s ready. I’ll set the table.”
I move to grab the cutlery before escaping to the small dining table. A few minutes later, Harriet appears with two plates of steaming-hot food. She’s smiling, but notmysmile. This one is reserved and withdrawn, which is exactly how dinner goes. The revelation about my marriage has the opposite effect and ruins the evening. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.
She never forces small talk on me, and I’m used to the silence, grown fond of it. Until her. I enjoy her humming around the cottage. Her constantly spinning record player. The crackling of a candle. Her gentle footsteps. The little breath ofimpatience she releases while cooking. I even enjoy the sour tasting sauce.
I take in all the small touches she’s added, the quirky welcome signs, her mahogany guitar sitting in the corner, ready for her next masterpiece. In a few short weeks, Harriet has made this quaint cottage a home, one where my kid will know nothing but love, laughter, and fun.
And where will you be?a voice asks, the same one that’s grown louder and harder to ignore.You don’t have to be on the sidelines, peering through a fogged window into a life, a future within touching distance.
I stare at my half-eaten plate, picturing myself as a part of this household, not a guest who has to leave eventually or sleep on the sofa bed in the office. I’d fall asleep with Harriet in my arms, her golden tresses splayed across my chest, feet tucked between mine to keep them warm.
A dream,I respond.It can only be a dream.
THIRTY-EIGHT
HARRIET
That’show many years have passed since my wife left me.
The shock of his confession buzzes in the air.
I’ve never pried into Warren’s past relationships, always presuming he didn’t want to discuss his love life. It really isn’t any of my business. Marriages break down for a thousand different reasons. Him and his ex-wife don’t share any children, so the likelihood we’ll ever meet is slim. It’s the tone with which he dropped the bombshell that shocked me.
Cold and distant.
I’m also not over the fact Warren wasn’t with anyone for nearly eight years before we met. That, and the fact he thought about me as much as I did him during the weeks we were apart. This evening was supposed to reassure me things between us were uncomplicated; instead, it’s a cocktail of mixed messages and jaw-dropping declarations.
What do I do with this information?
Warren has made it abundantly clear he has no interest in a relationship, which makes his admission so much more convoluted.
I watch the puzzle of a man from the corner of my eye as he chokes down the last bite of his food. He hasn’t noticed me pushing my portion around my plate for the last ten minutes. It tastes like horse manure.
Maybe tonight was a bad idea, and my lust-filled request for him to help me has tainted everything. Too many times, we’ve toed the fragile line, and now that we’ve stepped over it, there’s no repairing it.
The second Warren sets his fork down, I stand, collecting our plates. “Do you want more? Or dessert? Jimmy’s wife gave me some banana pudding.”
I hear his chair scraping across the floor, followed by his heavy footsteps as he follows me into the kitchen. I dump the plates into the sink and stare out into the night through the window.
Warren’s presence fills the room.
I want this to work so badly. I might’ve spent half of my childhood without two parents, but ever since Warren told me he wanted to be involved, I’ve held onto the hope my kid would have nice memories of their parents together, even if it is as friends.
The burn of his gaze warms me from head to toe but I still don’t look at him.
