“Hoarders?”
“Yes. This looks like you’re auditioning for that show. I’m worried about you.”
“You came all the way over here at nearly ten to tell me that?”
“No, I was at the office late. And you hadn’t been answering my texts all day.”
“Because I blocked your texts,” I say with a smirk.
His gaze darts to mine. “You . . .” He sighs, raises his glass like he’s going to take a drink, but then stops, setting it aside like it might explode. “I’m sorry,” he says with forced sincerity. “In our earlier text exchange, I did not mean to imply that our sexual relationship would or should continue or that I have any expectations that it will do so.”
For a second, I just stare blankly, trying to process the odd formality of his words. Then I bust out laughing. “Oh my God, did you rehearse that?”
He blushes. “No.”
“You did, didn’t you?”
He presses his lips together. “The university takes all allegations of—”
“I know, I know.” I wave my hand dismissively. “Yes. I got it. And thank you.” I try to see it from his point of view and still have to smother a laugh. But bless his heart, he is really trying. “I did not take your text the wrong way. But I still appreciate you trying to clear things up.”
He sinks back in his chair and scrubs a hand over his face. Lou raises her head and stares at him, clearly worried. “Thank God.” Now he takes a sip of wine. More than a sip, actually. “You know my past. And it’s hard to be careful enough.”
I did know his past. He’d been the teaching assistant for one of my classes when we’d started dating. The woman he’d cheated on me with had also been a colleague. One or two more incidents like that and it would look like a pattern.
“For men in power, the world has gotten really complicated in the past few years,” Clive says.
I know Clive. He’s self-centered and egotistical, but he’s not a predator. Still, he does have power over people’s lives. As one of the few people he actually listens to, it’s kind of my job to make sure he sees that. So I say gently, “For women, the world has always been this complicated.”
He flinches and then sighs. He does the face-scrub thing again before meeting my gaze. “I know. I’m sorry.”
He didn’t offer a genuine-sounding apology during the divorce. But this . . . this sounds real. Like he means it. So I nod.
“So now that you know I am not over at HR drawing up a complaint, can I get back to cleaning?”
“Yes.” He chuckles. “If this is really cleaning.”
But instead of getting up, he settles back in his chair, his hand resting on Lou’s head again. The bliss that washes over her is so potent I can feel it from across the room.
He shakes his head looking around. “What is up with you? Seriously?” He pins me with a look. “Is this about the letter from the county I got asking for a letter of recommendation?”
I try to hide a wince. The adoption specialist I’d been working with had wanted a letter from Clive. I’d hedged, hoping she’d give up on it. Apparently, she had not.
“Um . . . maybe.”
“Foster kids?” he asked. “Are you sure you’re ready for that, Holly?”
“You know I’ve always wanted kids.”
He also knows why I can’t have them myself. After the ectopic pregnancy that nearly killed me and had ultimately driven a wedge in our marriage that couldn’t be breached, the doctors said my chances of ever conceiving again were slim.
“Well, sure, we both wanted kids. But then . . .”
He trails off, obviously unsure what to say.
Even after all these years, he doesn’t have the emotional bandwidth to handle my grief.
“This really is what I want,” I try to explain. I look around my tiny house, taking in the massive upheaval I’m putting myself through. My living room looks like a Goodwill collection facility.
