Page 68 of The Husband I Left

The first morning I actually manage to catch her is a Thursday. I’ve been up since five, showered and dressed. I walked six blocks to a coffee shop that Genny used to love when we were married. And now I’m standing outside her door, heart hammering in my chest. I practice my smile in the reflection of the hallway fire extinguisher case. Friendly. Casual. Not desperate. Definitely not desperate.

The door opens at seven-oh-two, and there she is.

Her red hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun. She’s wearing a bulky purple coat and carrying a battered canvas tote bag. Her shoes and pants are the kind of things you wear because they are sensible and comfortable, not because they are stylish.

She’s never looked more beautiful.

“Good morning,” I say, my voice catching slightly. I extend the coffee toward her. “I thought you might want this.”

Genny looks at the cup. Then at me. Her green eyes, those eyes that have haunted my dreams for months, give nothing away.

“No, thank you,” she says, and turns to walk toward the stairs.

Just like that. Three words, and my entire morning; hell, my entire plan crumbles to dust.

It takes a minute before my body catches up with my brain, and when it does, I have to hurry to catch up with her. “Genny, wait.”

She doesn’t slow down. I follow, taking the stairs two at a time, trying to keep up without spilling the coffee.

“I’m looking for a job,” I blurt out. It’s the first thing that comes to mind, and I instantly regret it. She doesn’t care. Why would she care? “I’ve been trying to figure out what I really want to do.”

Her pace doesn’t change. She’s at the bottom of the stairs now, pushing through the building’s front door into the gray winter morning.

“I’m thinking about what kind of work would actually matter,” I continue, desperate now. The cold air hits us both, and I see her shoulders tighten beneath her coat. “And I wondered if you could do anything to make the world better, what would it be?”

Jesus Oliver. Could you sound any more like an idiot?

I half expect Genny to laugh; I sound so ridiculous right now. But she doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t say anything at all. We cross the parking lot in silence. She’s almost at her car, and I can’t think of anything else to say.

Then she stops. Turns to face me. Those green eyes are sharp and focused as she looks me straight in the eye.

“Billionaires need to pay their fair share in taxes, Oliver. That’d help make the world a better place.”

I blink. “Oh.”

“And you know what? I believe I will take this after all.” Before I can respond, before my brain can even process what she’s saying, she reaches out and takes the coffee from my hand. Her fingers brush against mine, and even though the contact is brief, my entire body jolts.

“Thank you for the coffee,” she says with a little smirk. Then she turns and walks to her car. Gets in. Starts the engine. Drives away.

I watch her go until her car turns the corner and disappears from view. The cold seeps in through my sweater, but I barely feel it.

Genny is magnificent.

Every word I’ve used to describe her in the past: beautiful, charming, funny; falls short. She’s magnificent.

And I was the biggest idiot in the world not to see it before it was too late.

* * *

I burn my dinner again that night. The recipe seemed simple enough. Pan seared chicken breast with herbs and a sauce. After watching the video several times, I was sure I could handle it. Turns out, it doesn’t matter how simple a recipe is if you get distracted by a text message and wander away in the middle of cooking it.

And now I’m standing on a chair, futilely flapping a towel at the smoke detector. My apartment reeks of charred chicken, and even though every window is open, the cold winter air isn’t making a dent in it. I need a fan. A big one.

Which means I need to borrow one from a neighbor. Again.

Mr. Hill’s door opens after my third knock. He’s wearing the same faded cardigan he had on the last time, and he looks annoyed. But when he catches sight of me, the annoyance shifts more to disbelief.

“You,” he says, one eyebrow climbing toward his hairline. “Again?”