In this still, small moment, I can’t help but wonder how much of this is fake.
Thirty-Two
Jude
* * *
I didn’t sleep a minute all night.
I couldn’t.
I lay there, watching Love the entire time. Soaking up our last night together, replaying the perfectly low-key day we spent and how she never left my side.
I wanted to tell her yesterday, but every time I tried, something thwarted my efforts or she was looking at me in a way that made it impossible for me to break the news right then and there.
I put it off and put it off until the opportunity slipped away and the day turned into night, and then I carried her to bed. I was going to leave because I wasn’t sure if she was going to want to make love or not, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to. To go from wild, passionate sex to dumping her the next morning isn’t something I could ever bring myself to do to her.
I go over everything in my head for the thousandth time.
You’re an incredible woman.
Any man would be lucky to be yours.
You’ve made me happier than I’ve ever been with anyone else.
But you deserve better.
I wish I could tell you more, but that’s all I can say and you’re going to have to trust that this is for the best.
I’m never going to forget you.
And I’m sorry that it didn’t work out for us—sorrier than I could ever put into words.
I hope someday you can forgive me, and that you can find someone who makes you feel as wonderful as you always made me feel.
The sunrise peeks through her bedroom curtains, and she stirs, rolling toward me. Her eyes are still closed, her expression still peaceful and lax. As if she can sense me watching her, Love’s mouth curls. A second later, her eyes squint open and she reaches, hand slowly extending toward my cheek.
“I think I’m in love with you, Jude Warner,” she whispers before letting her hand fall to my chest. Love shifts closer, nuzzling into my arm with a soft sigh.
I keep quiet, watching as she falls back asleep, waiting for her breathing to steady.
If things were different, I would tell her.
I would tell her I think I’m in love with her too.
Thirty-Three
Love
* * *
He’s gone when I wake, and the alarm beside me reads a quarter past eight. When my blurred gaze comes into focus, I spot a little slip of paper folded next to the clock.
* * *
Love,
Went for a run. Didn’t want to wake you …
Jude
* * *
Tossing the note back where I found it, I drag myself out from the heap of covers and press my bare feet against the floor. It’s odd that he didn’t invite me … we always run together.
Regardless, I try not to read into it and instead head to the shower to get cleaned up for the day. When I’m finished, I grab my keys and wallet and run out for coffee and bagels. He’s always starving after he runs, so this will give me a chance to show up and show out as the besotted woman he believes me to be.
Twenty-five minutes and a milelong line out the door later, I’m strolling down the sidewalk, arms full of breakfast, when I spot a familiar face up ahead.
A heavy glug fills my stomach and I glance around for an opportunity to avoid the inevitable, but before I get a chance to make a move, he’s already standing in front of me.
“I’m going to have to call you back, Drew.” Hunter pulls his phone from his ear, stopping in front of me, and it’s only then that I spot a pretty young thing on his arm, her baby face covered in five layers of Instagram-worthy makeup. Her arm hooks into his as she studies me with an unapologetic curiousness, and from the corner of my eye, I catch the glint of a giant rock on her left ring finger. “Love.”
I don’t say anything at first. The last time I saw him was after the alimony ruling and now … knowing what I know …
“You can say hi, you know,” he says, his mouth drawing into an enchanting smile, one I know from experience to be fake. “It’s good to see you. How have you been? Oh, this is Maleenia, by the way.”
Maleenia …
I’m pretty sure I’ve heard of her. If I’m not mistaken, she’s some twenty-one-year-old Yugoslavian pop star wannabe with over three million followers on Snap Chat.
Of course, he’s engaged to her.
In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the one whose graphic text message I received the night my marriage imploded. Guess all it takes to win over a girl like Maleenia is a few dick pics and the promise of a record deal.
“Really?” I ask. My brows rise and I ignore the young woman. If I didn’t spend the better part of the last half hour standing in line, I’d toss this coffee all over his YSL button down.
“Really, what?” Hunter plays dumb, which only makes me clench the brown paper bag in my left-hand harder.
“You’re just going to pretend everything’s fine?”
He lifts his hand to his jaw, glancing away as he chuckles. “Love, we’re grown adults. Let’s act like it.”
“Wow,” I say. “Not even married anymore, and you still can’t speak to me without your signature condescension.”
“Love …” His head tilts as he studies me, and for a moment, I can’t help but wonder if he’s missing me or patting himself on the back for making the right decisions. Either way, it doesn’t matter. “I’m sorry. I just … we’re going to be running into each other from time to time, and I don’t want it to always be so strained. That’s just not healthy.”
“I see you’ve been talking to Dr. Kissinger?” I ask, referring to the marital counselor we were ordered to talk to when we first filed our legal separation.
Talking or fucking. Probably both.
The woman had this Machiavellian look in her violet eyes during each and every session, like a cougar waiting for the right moment to pounce on her prey, and she did nothing but guide us toward divorce the entire time, saying it was her professional opinion that we had both changed and grown too much over the course of our marriage to make it work any longer.
But that’s neither here nor there.
“I’m sorry, Love,” he says, uttering a word I’d never once heard him say before. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out. I just wish you the best. That’s all.”
No. He doesn’t get to take the high road. He doesn’t get to have the last word and walk away looking like a hero while I stand here feeling like a jaded ex-wife.
He doesn’t get to do that.
He doesn’t get to make me feel like the one with a chip on their shoulder.
Hunter begins to walk away, but I can’t help myself.
“Apology accepted,” I call toward him, forcing tenderness into my voice and a smile on my lips.
He stops, turning back to face me, eyes squinted as he searches mine. What is he looking for? Honesty? The man wouldn’t know honesty if it smacked him across the face.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” I say. “But I have to tell you … I really think everything happens for a reason.”