Page 88 of The Husband I Left

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Falling for Oliver Sinclair the first time was like being swept out to sea. One minute I was taking his dinner order, and the next I was married, standing in a penthouse that echoed, wondering how I’d gotten there. Falling for him the second time is more like wading in, one deliberate step at a time, checking the temperature, keeping my eyes on the horizon. Three months in, and I’m about waist-deep. And the strangest part is that nobody is rushing me. Least of all him.

We have a rhythm now, and I love it more than I’d ever admit to anyone. The mornings have evolved; instead of the sentry routine, Oliver walks me down to my car, and we talk about nothing, and sometimes he hands me a travel mug of coffee, which I now accept without a single crisis of principle. Two or three nights a week we have dinner at Joe’s, the three of us crowded around his little table, and he tells stories of his wife, Janice, that leave my throat tight. Then we play cards and Joe cheats, and the first time he saw Oliver and me holding hands under his table, he just grunted and said, “Took you two long enough,” and dealt the next hand.

Most other nights, I end up on Oliver’s couch with a mug of cocoa. We talk. Oliver has taken a job at a community health clinic downtown. It was something he decided he wanted to do after a couple of times of giving Joe a ride there for checkups and refills on his meds. Now Oliver spends his days doing admin work and using his industry connections and knowledge to untangle their grant applications. We talk about Leo and Evan, who have become completely inseparable and who we often go out on double dates with. We talk about our families. Oliver still hasn’t had any contact with his and mine is in the process of slowly welcoming Oliver back into the fold. Oliver comes to most Sunday dinners at my parents’ house now. He helps my mother in the kitchen and talks sports with my father and brothers. They haven’t completely forgiven him yet for hurting me, but we’re getting there. My father is still threatening the fishing trip. Oliver, to his credit, keeps saying he’d genuinely like to go, which either means he’s truly changed or has no idea what he’s agreeing to. Possibly both.

We talk about marriage sometimes, both what went wrong the first time around and what we want our future to look like. We’re taking it slow. We go on dates. Movies and burger joints, and trips to the farmer’s market. Goodnight kisses at my door, soft and brief and maddening, because he always, always pulls back first and every single time I close my door afterward and stand there thinking about the fact that my memory is excellent and I know exactly what more than that feels like with him.

Which brings us to tonight.

It’s Saturday, and it’s been the kind of week that grinds you down to a nub, so when he suggested staying in, I nearly wept with gratitude. He cooked. Roast chicken with crispy skin and lemon and herbs, potatoes that shattered at the edges and went creamy in the middle, green beans with almonds. We ate together at his little table and afterwards did the dishes together, me washing, him drying, and we’re on his couch with the last of the wine, and he’s telling me about Mrs. Bowman downstairs who keeps trying to set him up with her granddaughter.

“I’ve told her four times I’m seeing someone,” he says, shaking his head. “She replies, and I quote, ‘You see my Amiie, I promise you’ll forget any other woman.’”

“I’m afraid Amiie is going to have to go be unforgettable somewhere else,” I reply, flirting with his foot with my own. “Tell Mrs. Bowman next time that I know how to deal with women who encroach on my territory.”

Oliver laughs at this, his head tipped back slightly, and the lamplight catches the line of his throat, and suddenly I’m done being patient and taking things slowly. I’ve been slowly wading in for months now and the water feels just fine.

Setting my wineglass down on the coffee table, I lean across the space between us and kiss him. He goes still for half a heartbeat, and then his hand comes up to cradle my jaw, and he kisses me back, and oh. Oh, my memory was not excellent. My memory was not even close. I fist my hand in the front of his shirt and pull him closer, and the last inch of space between us disappears entirely.

“Genny,” he breathes against my mouth, half question.

“Shut up, Oliver,” I say, and kiss him again.

He makes a sound low in his chest that I feel more than hear, and then he’s easing me back, lowering me down onto the cushions and his weight settles over me and my hands find their way under the hem of his shirt to the warm skin of his back. He kisses the corner of my mouth, my jaw, the spot just below my ear, and starts working his way down my neck, unhurried, devastating, and I have my fingers in his hair and my legs wrapped around his waist.

Someone knocks on the door.

We both freeze. Oliver’s mouth stops against my collarbone. My hand stops in his hair. Neither of us breathes.

He lifts his head just enough to whisper, “If we’re very quiet, maybe they’ll go away.”

The giggle escapes me before I can stop it, and he claps a hand lightly over my mouth, which only makes it worse, and now we’re both shaking with suppressed laughter, tangled together on this couch like a pair of teenagers hiding from a parent.

The knock comes again. Firmer this time. And then a voice floats through the door.

“Oliver? I know you’re in there. You’ve been ignoring my calls for months.”

Speak of the devil.

Every drop of warmth in my body turns to ice water. I know that voice.

Oliver’s head comes up. He looks at the door and then down at me.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, with feeling.

We spring apart. He’s up off the couch, yanking his shirt back down; I’m bolting upright, raking my fingers through my hair. Oliver takes a few deep breaths, hands on his hips, trying to get his body back under control. I smooth my sweater. His hair is a disaster. So is mine.

“Do I look—” he starts.

“Like you were just doing exactly what you were just doing? Yes.”

He drags a hand through his hair, which does nothing, takes a breath, squares his shoulders, and crosses to the door. I stay by the couch, hands clasped in front of me.

Oliver opens the door.

Nancy Sinclair stands in the dim hallway wearing a cream colored suit that probably cost more than this entire building. Her blonde hair is immaculate, her posture perfect; a leather handbag is draped over one arm. Her eyes take in her son’s rumpled state and then sweep past him to take in the apartment, the wineglasses on the coffee table. And then they land on me.