He’s my friend.
But he’s still her husband.
And in the end, it isn’t even a competition.
“Niall?” I ask, muting the TV.
He turns toward me. “Yes?”
“Did you . . . did you like being married?”
He stiffens, and the flicker of TV light paints his face in the strangest colors. “Of course.”
A pregnant pause settles between us.
“Do you think you’d ever . . . want to reconcile?” I ask, blown away by my sudden audacity.
It’s got to be the wine. It’s denigrated all sense of self-control, every last verbal filter I had.
“More than anything,” he adds, his voice low and broken. “Why would you ask me that?”
I’ve offended him. I’ve stuck my nose where it doesn’t belong. I’ve crossed the line between landlord and tenant and pushed the boundaries of our budding friendship . . . again.
“I’ve just been thinking a lot about marriage lately. In general, I mean,” I say, hoping I can retroactively make sense of my prying. “You know me . . . random.”
I take the remote and hit the volume, the sound of the Dateline host filling the room. Niall uncrosses and recrosses his legs, making himself comfortable again, like he has no plans to go anywhere.
I breathe a sigh of relief at the fact that my nosy line of questioning didn’t send him into the next room or, worse, send him packing.
Instead, here we are, playing house again, and I realize now that if he were reconciling with Kate, he probably wouldn’t be here, sitting next to me.
He could be with her, but he’s not.
He’s spending time with me—his friend.
His closest friend for all I know.
No one else.
But I have to be careful. He made it perfectly clear that he still has feelings for Kate, that he loved being married, that he’s open to the possibility of reconciling.
I had my head smashed in once.
I don’t need my heart shattered, too.
I’ve already lost all my friends . . . I can’t lose him, too.
CHAPTER 10
I spent most of Tuesday morning talking myself out of this, but by the afternoon, that inner voice of reason had become nagging and redundant and ultimately powerless. With each creaky step upstairs, silently scolding myself, I wallow in how wrong this is, reminding myself how mortifying it was to be caught red-handed last weekend.
But now here I am anyway, perched against the edge of Niall’s desk, paging through his estranged wife’s diary like I have every right.
July 17
I finally asked Niall about marriage counseling tonight and he embraced the idea with open arms. He said he felt it too, that we’d been disconnecting and veering off track. This morning he sent me flowers—two dozen long stem roses in my favorite shade of pastel peach, and the sweetest note informing me he’d made dinner reservations tonight at our favorite place.
I’m three more entries deep when the closing of the back door rattles through the house.
Niall’s home.
I close the journal and place it back where it was, leaning against the lamp on his desk. The passages I read today weren’t as juicy as I’d hoped. Kate tends to document her days as a bored housewife whose hobbies include various philanthropic efforts. From what I gather, they met in Massachusetts when he was doing his oncology rotation several years ago. She knows no one here, and if I read between the lines, I’m finding Kate to be lonely and a bit unsettled but head over heels in love with her husband.
Their love story is contained in these entries—and for reasons that are all my own, I’m dying to know how it all will end.
With light, nimble feet, I scramble to get out of his study, only in the process, I brush against his dresser and knock a stack of papers to the floor. Falling to my knees, I scoop them up and place them back where I think they were, but it only takes a moment for me to realize what they are.
Divorce papers for Niall and Kate Emberlin.
Oh, my God.
His line is signed.
I get the hell out of there and hide in the spare bathroom across the hall, listening for his footsteps to indicate he’s made it to his room. The sound of his door closing comes next, which tells me it’s safe for me to come out.
The stairs creak with each step, and my sweaty palm glides down the banister with minimal effort. When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I turn to ensure he isn’t standing there, that I haven’t been caught.
Making my way to the kitchen, I begin my nightly fridge and pantry rummaging to figure out what to make for dinner.
Chicken carbonara.
I have everything for chicken carbonara.
And it’s one of Niall’s favorites. Or at least, he wouldn’t stop raving about it last time I made it. Of course, he could have been being polite, but it seemed genuine enough.
I grab a carton of free-range eggs from the fridge and a slab of meat-counter bacon wrapped in brown paper, only when I close the door, I nearly drop them all because Niall’s standing right there, filling the space with his quiet, lanky presence.
“Hey,” he says. There’s something lighter about him today, though I can’t put my finger on it. “I was thinking maybe we could go out for dinner tonight.”
Is this a celebration of sorts?
I mean, he did sign the divorce papers.
“Yeah.” Returning the bacon and eggs to their rightful places, I add, “I’d love to.”
Baru 46 is the newest restaurant to grace Quinnesec Bluff’s trendy Merchant District—it’s where all the hottest shops and eateries are born (and sometimes die). This place has it all: candlelight, a sommelier, dinner-for-two specials, and a man in the corner playing the Spanish guitar, which tells me this isn’t just dinner.
Also, we’re surrounded by couples, though I try not to read into that. The ink on his divorce papers has hardly dried, and he’s never so much as tried to kiss me. I can’t imagine sensible, rational Niall rushing headfirst into a romantic relationship with a woman who clearly isn’t 100 percent yet.
“I can order for us,” he offers. He must sense that I’m overwhelmed by the menu. Or that my nerves have caught my tongue. Or he’s trying to be a gentleman. Regardless, it’s typical thoughtful Niall.
“That would be amazing,” I say, placing my menu flat in front of me and exhaling.
Our server approaches a moment later, and while the two of them are discussing specials and recommendations, I scan the room. It’s dark. Mostly faces illuminated by flickering centerpieces, but my eyes adjust and I discover there’s a familiar face in the corner.
Amber—one of my former close friends.
She’s with a man, one I’ve never seen before. Is she cheating on Jude? Did they divorce?
Niall and the server are discussing the tapas menu in great detail, and I find it hard to sit still. My feet fidget beneath the table, my fingers dancing along the tops of my thighs. I adjust my sleeves and change up my posture and tuck my hair behind one ear, unable to get settled.
The last time I saw Amber, we’d gone straight from pedicures to margaritas, just a typical girls’ afternoon. We were discussing her maid-of-honor role in her sister’s upcoming wedding in Puerto Vallarta, and then we said our goodbyes, with promises to text later.