Chapter 23
Take your life back from the moment in the rain.
I read it three times.
Then I deleted it.
Not because I disagreed.
Because I no longer needed Vanessa Hale to remain part of the story Adrian and I were trying to understand.
For six years, I had blamed her because hatred needs somewhere simple to live.
She had been easier to hate than the truth.
Adrian had loved me and still hurt me.
I had loved him and still kept his children from him.
Neither truth erased the other.
People like simple stories.
Victim.
Villain.
Betrayal.
Justice.
Real life is crueler because sometimes everybody makes understandable choices that still destroy someone else.
Adrian never asked me to move back into his house.
That mattered.
He never asked me to become Evelyn Moretti again.
That mattered too.
I rented a townhouse near the university where I had accepted a research position.
Noah chose the bedroom facing the street because he wanted to see the stars, even after I explained Chicago had too much light.
Lily chose the smaller room because it had a window seat.
Adrian bought neither house nor furniture.
I knew resisting that impulse probably caused him physical pain.
He did install a security system after asking permission.
Then he installed another layer of security after explaining the first one.
I allowed both.
Compromise, I learned, occasionally looks like permitting your criminal ex-husband to reinforce your windows while forbidding him from purchasing the building next door.
The twins began seeing him three afternoons a week.
Then weekends.
Then one overnight.
I did not sleep at all that first night.
At two in the morning, my phone rang.
I answered instantly.
“What happened?”
Adrian whispered, “Lily wants you.”
My heart slammed.
“Is she okay?”
“She had a nightmare.”
“Put her on.”
A sleepy voice came through the phone.
“Mommy?”
“I’m here.”
“Daddy’s room is too big.”
I closed my eyes.
“I warned him.”
“I don’t like the hallway.”
“Do you want me to come?”
A pause.
Then, “Daddy said I can sleep in his bed.”
I imagined Adrian, who had once slept through gunshots in the distance without flinching, standing helpless beside a frightened six-year-old.
“Do you want to?”
“Yes.”
“Then stay.”
“Okay.”
Another pause.
“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“Daddy snores.”
From somewhere nearby, Adrian said, “I do not.”
Lily giggled.
I smiled into the darkness.
“Go to sleep.”
The next morning, Adrian sent me a photograph.