He asked about my day. I didn’t tell him about my dad.
Not because I don’t trust him. Not because I think he’d react badly, or judge me, or try to fix it. Peter isn’t like that. He would’ve listened. And then he would’ve said something that was exactly right without trying to be, and then he would’ve made me feel like Tim’s opinion is as small and irrelevant asit deserves to be. I wanted to tell him. Not telling him feels… foreign and uncomfortable.
Andthat’sthe problem.
I didn’t tell him, but I wanted to. I still do.
In the past, I would have defaulted to protecting someone from my mess. I would default to glossing over details because if I got into the nitty-gritty, it would become too much. Because everyone has their own shit to deal with, and the last thing they need is to deal with mine, too.
The thought of not telling him, of not sharing every detail of my life with him—that thought grips my lungs until it’s hard to breathe.
I don’t want to protect him. Not from my mess. Not from the parts of my life that are ugly and complicated and exhausting.
I miss him. And I don’t want to be the kind of person who keeps things from the people she?—
The cereal bowl clatters in the sink louder than I intended, and I stand there with the water running, staring at the drain.
Oh.
It’s not casual. It hasn’t been casual for a while. And the fact that tonight my instinct wasn’t to hide but to share—that’s not the old Billie. The old Billie would’ve swallowed it, smiled through it, filed it away in the overstuffed cabinet of things people outside of my inner circle don’t need to know. And it would have felt normal. Fine, even.
This Billie wanted to hand it to him. Wanted him to hold it for a minute so she didn’t have to carry it alone.
It’s terrifying. And it’s the most honest thing I’ve felt in years.
CHAPTER 38
IT’S NOT ABOUT THE EGGS.
DARCY
On Thursday, Martin offers me everything.
We’re in his corner office—the one I used to picture myself in, back when having my name on a door meant something—and he lays it out like a hand of cards he’s been saving.
Partner track.
My old client list, plus three new accounts.
A compensation package that would make my financial investor brain weep with joy.
“Take September,” he says, leaning back in his chair with the easy confidence of a man who’s never doubted a decision in his life. “Extend your little sabbatical. October first, you’re back. We’ll announce the promotion at the fall retreat in Muskoka.”
Your little sabbatical.
Like the last few months have been a vacation. Like I’ve been sitting on a beach somewhere, instead of rebuilding myself from the inside out in a small Nova Scotia town, where the cashier at the grocery store knows my name and a woman with calloused hands and a crooked smile taught me how to breathe through a panic attack in my kitchen.
“That’s incredibly generous, Martin. I appreciate it.”
“You don’t have to appreciate it. You’ve earned it. Before you left, you were billing more than anyone on the floor. The clients miss you. I miss you.” He says it like a joke, but I can hear the offer underneath:Come back. Be who you were. It’s easier.
And he’s right. It would be easier. The apartment is still here. The routine is still here. The version of Peter Darcy who wore ties every day and ate nice lunches at his desk and measured his worth in billable hours—that guy is waiting right where I left him, like a Tom Ford suit on a hanger.
But I don’t want to put him back on.
“Can I have some time to think about it?”
Something flickers across Martin’s face—surprise, maybe. In his world, people don’t ask for time to consider a promotion to partner. They shake your hand and call their parents. “Of course. Middle of September. But, Darcy—don’t overthink this. You’re not the type.”
