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Genny just looks at me with one eyebrow raised. “I can buy my own dinner, Oliver.”

I‘ve never felt more useless in my life. Before everything blew up, I prided myself on being able to provide for Genny, to give her everything money could buy. But now I realize how hollow that was. She didn’t want my money. She wanted something I’m not sure I know how to give — true partnership, sacrifice, unconditional love.

The server returns Genny’s card. She tucks it back into her purse and stands. I stand too, automatically, like the well-trained gentleman my mother raised me to be.

“Please cooperate with the divorce, Oliver,” she says, her voice gentle now. “Don’t drag things out.”

“Genny, please,” I say, the words barely audible. It’s all I can manage.

She looks at me for a long moment, those green eyes searching mine. Then she shakes her head slightly. “Be happy, Oliver,” she says.

And then she walks away, her heels clicking on the tile floor, her red hair swinging with each step. I watch her go, knowing with a sinking certainty that she won’t be back. Not this time. Not ever.

I’ve lost her. And I have no one to blame but myself.

Chapter 16

Oliver

Five months. That’s how long it’s been since Genny walked out of my life. It’s been three months since she started working at Merry Hill Senior Services. A month and a half ago, she moved into a cozy little apartment in Camden. A week ago, our divorce was finalized. Two hours ago, I last checked her Instagram.

I can’t stop this pathetic surveillance of her new life. I know it’s not healthy. I know I should be doing literally anything else right now, anything other than thinking about her, anything other than combing through her social media hoping for even the smallest hint that she’s suffering as much as I am.

I could review the merger projections. I’m sure there’s a piece of paper somewhere in this godforsaken building that needs my signature. There’s probably any number of emails I need to respond to. I could even find somebody to call and yell at if I looked hard enough. The one thing I absolutely should not do is check Genny’s Instagram. I told myself I was done for the day. So naturally, I pull out my phone and open the app again.

Her new profile photo is a candid of her at the beach, hair wild in the wind. She’s not alone, of course. That asshole Evan is with her. Genny looks like she’s laughing so hard she can barely stand up. Are they still dating? I don’t know. I can’t tell. They certainly seem to spend a lot of time together. He’s in a lot of her pictures. But none of their interactions on social media, at least, scream “couple.” The only thing I do know for sure is that I hate the guy.

It shouldn’t matter. She isn’t mine to be jealous over. Not anymore. I signed papers a week ago that attest to that. But I hate him anyway. I hate that he seems to make Genny happy in a way I never could, even when our marriage was at its best. I hate that when she needed somewhere to run; she ran to him, and he opened the door.

I keep scrolling, masochist that I am. There’s a video of Genny dancing with her father in the backyard, her bare feet in the grass, his big hand wrapped around hers. I watch it twice before scrolling on.

The next post is a picture of Genny at the party her friends threw her to celebrate our divorce being finalized. They are toasting with red Solo cups, some people holding sparklers over their heads. The caption reads simply, “To Freedom.” I see Evan left a comment: “Onward and upward!”

I slam my phone down and reach for the crystal tumbler on my desk, swirling the amber liquid before taking another generous swallow. The whiskey is top shelf, expensive, smooth. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps.

Pathetic. I’m pathetic.

Standing up, I walk to the window and look out. The view is as pointless as everything else. Boston’s skyline in late November is the color of old dishwater, and the only movement comes from the wind sending half-dead leaves skittering along the ground.

“Are you planning to actually do some work, or will you just spend the day brooding again?”

I look up to find Leo lounging in my doorway. He’s immaculately dressed as always, not a hair out of place, and I am suddenly keenly aware of my own disheveled appearance.

“I’m busy,” I mutter, walking back over to my desk and collapsing into my chair with a groan. “Why are you here? There’s nothing on my schedule with your name on it.”

Leo saunters in anyway, dropping into one of the leather chairs across from my desk. He kicks his feet up, crossing his ankles on the polished wood.

“Consider this an intervention,” he says, studying me intently. “Because I am apparently the only person in this place brave enough to tell you that you look like absolute shit.”

I run a hand through my hair, which I realize too late is greasy and unkempt. When was the last time I showered? Yesterday? The day before? The days have started to blur together.

“Your concern is noted,” I say, not bothering to keep the edge from my voice. “Don’t you have actual work to do? I pay you an obscene amount of money to be the best corporate attorney in Boston, not my therapist.”

Leo smiles at that. “I’m multi-tasking. Also, I was bored.”

“Well, go be bored somewhere else.” I open my laptop so I don’t have to look at him.

Leo chuckles at that. “I suppose I do have an actual work related issue to discuss with you.” He drops his feet back to the floor and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Victoria made another intern cry. At this rate, she’ll have run them all off by Christmas.”