Glancing at him, I say, “This is weird.”
He peers over at me. “Yep.”
I clear my throat. “But we will persist.”
“Been doing a lot of that lately,” he mutters.
His honest words hit my heart like it’s a struck tuning fork. Suddenly my throat is tight, my eyes wet. An embarrassing laugh-sob jumps out of me. “I, on the other hand, am doingsogreat.”
“Same,” he says quietly.
I dab my nose and the corners of my eyes. “Yeah?”
“Hell, yeah.” His mouth lifts at the corner, a commiserating, weary, not-quite smile. “I’m living the dream.”
We keep trudging up the steps. There are so many damn steps.
“So,” I say, trying for a breezy tone, like I didn’t just have a mini breakdown three stairs below. “What, uh, brings you… here?”
“I’m here to pick up my daughter.”
I freeze. My stomach drops. “Your what?”
The man stops, too. “My daughter,” he says slowly.
“Why… is your daughter here?”
He glances at the house and sighs. “I had the same question for my ex-wife.”
I stare at the house that Ethan took. That Ilethim take. My heartbeat thunders in my ears.
Ethan is already spending time with another woman, after saying he wanted to divorce, or, in his words, “consciously uncouple,” in order “to explore an unattached life and reconnect with himself.” Ethan is with a woman who has adaughter, after telling me for over a decade that he wasn’t ready to be a father.
“What about you?” the man asks.
I very rarely get angry. I amveryangry right now. Between clenched teeth, I tell him, “I’m here to get my dog from my ex-husband.”
“Your ex-husband?” he says. “This is his place?”
I tear my gaze from the house and meet his eyes. “Yes.”
“Jen said…” A muscle jumps in his jaw. “She was sleeping over at afriend’s.”
I laugh emptily. “We’ve been divorced for a week.”
“Same for us.” He scrubs at his face and mutters, “Jesus Christ.”
I turn toward the house and start marching up the stairs.
“You’re pissed,” he says, catching up to me.
“I amlivid.”
“Why? You’re divorced. What do you care who he spends time with?”
“It’s not about that. It’s about…” I reach for words, but they’re all too embarrassing, too confessional. “Don’tyoucare?” I say instead.
He’s silent the length of two steps, then as we reach the last stretch of flat concrete, says, “I care that my daughter spent the night here, instead of in her home, in her own bed, which is where she’ssupposedto be, since I moved out and let her mother keep the place so she could have that ‘continuity.’?”
