“Your face did.”
He sets down his already empty container after devouring his food the same way he devoured my—nope, not going there.
“Three years, Ange. It can’t be easy to let that go.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. “Those three years meant nothing the second I found that note. I don’t owe him anything.”
While Tyler’s been off in Mexico doing god knows what, I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on our relationship. I’m not entirely sure I wasn’t settling for mediocre when I agreed to marry him. I think I loved him, in my own way, but it wasn’t the kind of love I grew up around.
My parents were head over heels for each other, and their devotion only deepened with time. I always wanted that for myself. A part of me wanted to believe I’d found it with Tyler, but I didn’t get butterflies when he touched me, and he never showed up on my lunch break just because he could. It wasn’t like…
Griffin.
It wasn’t like Griffin.
I shove the thought away, too conflicted to giveit any credence. This isn’t anything; itcan’tbe anything. Vegas was a mistake, and Colorado was a lie.
I crumple up my napkin and toss it into the mostly empty container. “I should get back to work. Donkeys with pink eye wait for no one.”
He stands and runs his palms down his jeans, drawing my attention to those thick, muscular thighs.
Stop looking at his thighs.
“Clover again?” he asks.
I nod. “Wouldn’t be a Monday afternoon at Oak Ridge Animal Clinic if I didn’t have to field calls from old man Wilson.”
He bags up the trash, and we stand awkwardly for a moment. “I’ll see you around.”
And just like that, he strides out the door, leaving behind the folder that would dissolve our marriage.
As soon as I walk through the front door of my midtown bungalow, I strip off my bra and toss it onto the back of the couch, making my way to the kitchen and turning on the kettle. I’ve always taken great pride in my home. Every detail is perfectly curated down to the organized spice drawer and tea cabinet.
Tyler always hated what he called my ‘girly’ aesthetic—pink bedding, gold accents, sparkly countertops and backsplash—but it’s not like he contributed anything beyond a few video game consoles and some memorabilia from his rodeo career.
There used to be photos of him and Griffin on my bookshelves, and the house smelled vaguely like his favorite cologne.Now it just smells like me, and Griffin’s presence isn’t characterized by the photos, but by the ring I slipped on my finger at the end of my shift against my better judgment.
I don’t let myself dwell on why it feels at home there.
When the kettle clicks off, I pour myself a steaming cup of Earl Grey and set it on the coffee table to cool before making my way to my bedroom to change out of my scrubs. I gather up my laundry and toss it in the wash, pulling up short when I notice a load still sitting in the dryer. I open the door and pull out a white dress shirt and a pair of black slacks.
Tyler’s wedding clothes.
When I got the note, I assumed he’d left in the night. The fabric in my hands tells another story. How long before he changed his mind? Was he putting on his cuff links when he decided he didn’t want to marry me anymore? Or was it after he slipped on the jacket and adjusted his collar just right?
In my mind’s eye, I can picture it perfectly—his dark hair slicked back, blue eyes raking over his handsome figure in his black suit. He scowls and shakes his head before tugging off his tie and tossing it onto the bed. Then the image blurs.
It’s not Tyler anymore.
It’s Griffin.
He’s standing across from me at the altar in his tweed suit coat and jeans, with an unexpected softness in his warm brown eyes. The contrast is startling, but what’s more troubling is the intense longing I feel for the latter.
Shaking myself out of the vision, I ball up Tyler’s clothing and stomp outside to the trash. The neighbor across the street waves at me. I wave back before unceremoniously shoving the fabric into the can with a satisfied smile.
Now there’s nothing left to tie me to Tyler but the memories we once shared. I don’t hold any fondness for them anymore. They’re just a bittersweet reminder of how it all ended, of the life he fled and the woman he leftbehind. I said goodbye to that version of me at the hotel bar, deleted every trace of our relationship from my phone, and promised myself no man would ever again have the power to break me.
Once inside, I settle on the couch with my tea in one hand and the remote in the other. A little trash TV is just what the doctor ordered.
