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Like her son was so many times over the course of our relationship.
Before I came home to him sitting in the kitchen, divorce papers on the counter in front of him.
I know what I want to do?—
“But I’m scared.”
Her arm wraps around my shoulders. “I know, sweetheart.”
I sigh.
She reaches into the bag, pulls out the cookie, and hands it to me. “Eat, baby girl. And then sit here and enjoy the view, the quiet, the space you’re taking.” She touches my cheek. “Sit and think about what you want, what you need, what needs to change, and then, whenever you’re ready, come home.”
My lids slide closed.
“Because we all love you so much, honey, but not as much as Stefan does—and he needs you.”
A tear slips free. “Diane,” I whisper.
Her palm cups my cheek. “Carbs. Space. And then see you soon, sweetheart.”
I nod. “Okay,” I whisper.
Her mouth curves. “That’s my girl.” And then she’s pressing a kiss to my forehead before pushing up to her feet, walking away.
Leaving me to the ocean and the blue sky and the solitude that I need to get my thoughts together.
Leaving me to think.
When I already know the answers to all of the questions rattling through my mind.
Thirty-Nine
Stefan
“Are you living with Mom again?”
I look up from the stack of papers on the counter and see my daughter is standing in the entrance to the kitchen, expression suspicious.
Tiff glances up from where she’s making cookies, her eyes connecting with mine. She wordlessly picks up the bowl, tucks it away in the fridge, and walks out of the room.
I close the folder, turn to my daughter. “Why do you ask, honey?”
“Because we haven’t been back to the other house.”
I open my mouth.
“And your stuff is in Mom’s room.”
I close it again.
“And you and Mom have been spending all your time together.” A beat as she looks down at her sock-covered feet, toes flexing lightly against the hardwood floor. “Like you used to.”
My throat tightens.
“Before you said you guys were getting a divorce.” Her voice is quiet now and sad, enough that my heart squeezes tightly, the guilt tying my insides into knots creeps up my throat, threatens to steal the words from my tongue. “Are you going to get married again?”
Another squeeze.
