Chapter 20
I didn’t want to pretend those memories meant nothing.
But I couldn’t build another decade on memories of a life that had existed only briefly.
“I don’t know who we would be starting as,” I said.
Vincent leaned forward.
“We could try counseling.”
“Maybe we should have tried that years ago.”
“I know.”
“We could have talked before there was another woman.”
His face tightened.
“I know.”
“We could have made changes before you brought twenty-eight pages of divorce papers to dinner.”
He looked away.
I waited.
Finally, he whispered, “I know.”
I looked at him.
“Have you stopped seeing Lena?”
He nodded.
“We’ve talked about what happened.”
I kept my voice steady.
“And?”
His expression became painfully tired.
“I was trying to return to a time in my life when everything seemed simpler.”
I listened.
“Lena remembered the man I used to be.”
He swallowed.
“And I liked being remembered that way.”
I understood more than I wanted to.
He hadn’t only been reaching for another woman.
He had been reaching for a version of himself that existed before responsibility hardened him.
Before love became another item on his schedule.
Before his world was organized around control.
“But that man isn’t coming back,” Vincent said quietly.
I looked at him.
“And neither is the woman you married.”
His eyes filled.
I had never seen Vincent cry in public.
Not when he lost major deals.
Not when his company faced devastating setbacks.
Not even during most of the days after his father’s death.
Now his eyes shone under the restaurant’s soft lights.
“Please don’t say that.”
I felt my own tears spill over.
“It’s true.”
He reached across the table.
His hand stopped halfway.
He seemed suddenly uncertain whether he was allowed to touch me.
I looked at his hand.
For ten years, I would have reached for it automatically.
This time, I didn’t.
“I can’t come back because you’re lonely,” I whispered.
His fingers curled.
“And I can’t give up the life I’m rebuilding because you finally understand what losing me feels like.”
He lowered his hand.
We sat in silence.
Eventually, he said, “I love you, Mara.”
I looked at him.
Those words had once been enough to repair almost anything.
I remembered how desperately I had wanted to hear them after my mother’s funeral.
After every canceled anniversary.
After every argument about returning to work.
I had wanted him to say them and mean that he would change.