Page 70 of The Husband I Left

“I—” I start, and then stop. What am I going to say? That I married my wife as part of a revenge plot against my father? That I let my wife think I was unfaithful because I saw a chance to even the score with an ex? That I watched my wife slowly disappear into the role of “Mrs. Sinclair” and did nothing to stop it because it was easier than examining my own behavior?

“It’s going to take more than Pacziki to fix this,” I say instead, the understatement of the century.

Mr. Hill shrugs. “It’s a good start, though.”

I consider that. I’ve spent months trying to figure out the grand gesture, the dramatic declaration, the thing that will make Genny look at me and see that I’ve changed. But maybe change doesn’t look like quitting your job or moving into a crappy apartment. Maybe it looks smaller. More like Pacziki than fireworks.

I finish my coffee and push back from the table. “Thank you for dinner, Mr. Hill. Really. This was…”

I trail off, unable to find the right words. Nice doesn’t cover it.

“You’re welcome, kid,” Mr. Hill says, saving me from myself. “Anytime.”

I’m halfway to the door when he calls after me. “Hey. Come over tomorrow night. Around six.”

I turn, curious. “What for?”

He gives me that same half-smile, the one that makes his wrinkles deepen around his eyes. “I’ll teach you to cook a few things. So you don’t burn the whole damn place down and take me with it.”

“I’d be grateful,” I say, and I mean it just about more than I’ve ever meant anything in my life.

Chapter 25

Genny

The problem with my ex-husband living across the hall from me isn’t that he’s there. It’s that he’s there. Every single morning, to be precise. I’m convinced he quit his job solely so he could move here and torment me when I’m trying to get out the door to work every morning. I said as much to his face once, and he looked at me with those eyes that are even more vividly blue than I remember and asked what on earth I was talking about. All he’s doing is saying good morning.

He’s managed to be there every single morning. Not right outside my door, but in the vicinity. He’ll be coming up the stairs with a bag of takeout right as I’m going down. Once he was at the mailboxes in the lobby. One day he was just standing at the window in the hallway, looking out at the parking lot the same way he used to look out the windows of the penthouse. And every single time I get close, he’ll turn, and his face will light up, and he’ll say the same thing. Every morning.

“Good morning, Genny. I hope you have a good day.”

“Good morning, Genny. I hope you have a good day.”

“Good morning, Genny. I hope you have a good day.”

“Good morning, Genny. I hope you have a good day.”

At least he hasn’t tried to give me coffee again.

I asked him once if he was planning to do this every day going forward, and he just grinned and said yes. On day nine, I decided to change tactics. I remembered the mornings during the last horrible months of our marriage when I would get up to make his coffee and he would already be gone, and I decided what was good for the goose is good for the gander. I got up at six and left my apartment almost an hour early. I made it all the way down to the lobby without seeing his stupid face, and I was feeling very smug about it until I saw him walk through the lobby doors holding a newspaper, of all things.

“Good morning, Genny. I hope you have a good day.”

“Maybe he just really wants you to have a good day,” Evan suggests with an amused expression. We are eating lunch together, and Evan has been listening to me complain, yet again, about Oliver.

“He doesn’t care if I have a good day,” I mutter, stabbing at my pad thai. “He’s doing this because he thinks it’s going to wear me down.”

“Maybe it is.”

“It is not.”

“I don’t know. Oliver Sinclair abdicating the throne and dedicating himself to your morning happiness? Pretty heady stuff.”

“Oh, stop it. It is not,” I kick him under the table, and Evan just laughs.

“It’s temporary; he’s going to get bored and give up,” I say a few minutes later.

Evan leans back in his chair and raises a brow. “Genny, he willingly moved into a unit in your building. Where the elevator has been broken since the Clinton administration, if Mrs. Perry is to be believed. He gave up what was probably an obscene amount of money, and quit his job, and now he’s here. That’s an awful lot of effort for him just to get bored and give up.”