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Keeping my expression as neutral as possible, I nodded back at him before turning to escape into the kitchen without inviting him to follow me. I needed a moment alone to collect myself. My first attempt to explain my decision to Art had been a long-winded email explaining why I had to prioritize finding my way back to myself over whatever was growing between us. I’d gone on and on about how I’d lost myself over the course of my marriage and how I desperately needed to spend some time alone so I could figure out who I was and what I wanted out of life so that, when the time came for me to be a partner again, I could show up as a whole person rather than a brittle, fragmented shadow of myself.

I’d wept as I wrote it and had deleted the whole thing after typing the last period. The cursor had mocked me as I stared at the screen, looking for the right words to help him understand.

After many more attempts to get the email just right, I’d opted for a few simple lines, thanking him for a wonderful few weeks and wishing him the best going forward. Then, with my heart in my throat, I’d deleted that too and picked up the phone. The lightness I felt after hanging up convinced me I hadn’t made the worst mistake of my life.

My marriage to Jim had been all-consuming. Or rather, Jim’s expectations of me had been all-consuming. Almost as much as my family’s had been before him. My whole life, people had told me who to be, and I had bent over backward to become who people expected without questioning what I wanted for myself.

Meandering around Scotland with my easygoing, undemanding brother for company, soaking up and delighting in the history and the energy, had shown me how little I knew about what made me, me.

After decades of lamenting how invisible I was to the people who claimed to love me, it had taken stumbling across the type of store I’d once aspired to own to make me realize I was the worst offender of all.

Ending a fledgling relationship with unclear potential had seemed like a far lesser crime than continuing to ignore myself. But what if that had just been fear talking? A way to avoid risking further harm to my heart?

The familiar whoop whoop sound of the Doctor Who Tardis taking off dragged me back to the present as I emerged from the kitchen carrying two cups of tea. Art’s eyes glittered with amusement, and the smile tugging at the corner of his lips softened the worst of his tortured expression. His grin grew as I fumbled for my phone to silence the text notification from Mac.

Embarrassment warmed my face as I glanced down at the screen. Art’s delight in my ringtone made my lower abdomen tighten disconcertingly. With my free hand, I rubbed my throbbing forehead. The cognitive dissonance of seeing Art in the shop was making my head spin. None of the countless “sliding door” stories I’d read over the years had touched on what happened if two of the timelines converged.

I sense a disturbance in the force. You OK?

Rolling my eyes, I stuffed my phone back into my pocket. There were times when our twin bond was more of a nuisance than a help.

I dropped my head to avoid Art’s gaze and found myself staring at his legs. My eyes lingered a moment too long as I contemplated how his jeans hugged them in all the right ways. Feeling my ears warm again, I dragged my eyes back up before my entire face burst into flame, skirting his mouth so I wouldn’t be tempted to linger.

I’d lost count of how many times I’d imagined what it would feel like to have him press his lips to mine and tease them open with his tongue.

Maybe he wouldn’t notice that I’d suddenly turned beet red. His soft chuckle dispelled that hope neatly.

“What are you doing here, Art?” I asked, suddenly aware of how long we’d been standing in complete silence. Had he been waiting for me to say something? Or was he as rattled by finally being in my presence as I was in his?

A brief flash of pain extinguished the light my ringtone had put in his eyes, and he scrunched up his face and rubbed his eyes before replying.

“Why did you come? I mean, beyond the cable thing.”

“Fiber,” he corrected, grimacing. “To be honest, I’m not really sure.”

I frowned.

“As I said earlier, a fortuitous twist, one possibly engineered by a nosy assistant.”

“I don’t understand.”

Shooting me a wry smile, he rolled his eyes.

“I was a bit of a wreck after your phone call. I think that my assistant took it upon herself to help.”

“You were?” He’d seemed sad that I was calling things off, but not devastatingly so. It was one of the reasons I’d been able to move on with relatively little remorse.

A pit formed in my stomach as he glanced away and took a deep breath before continuing.

“I was hurt, Meg.” He winced. “And, if I’m honest, a little embarrassed.”

I reared back as though he’d slapped me. He was making it sound like I’d intentionally hurt him. I hadn’t ended things callously for my own benefit. I’d also done it for him. He deserved better than to be with a fragmented shell of the woman I’d once been.

“One moment, I’m telling you things I’ve never told anyone because I felt so connected to you. The next, I’m getting off a one-minute phone call where you all you essentially said was ‘it’s over’ and begged me not to hate you. And, oh… how I wanted to hate you, Meg.”

Each word was like a separate punch to the gut. When I whimpered, his tone softened and took on a slightly desperate, pleading tone.

“Tell me it wasn’t just me, Meg. Please. Or tell me it was! I need to know,” he pleaded. “Because no matter how hard I try, I can’t figure out what went wrong. Was it something I did? Something I said? Did I come on too strong? Was that it? What could I have done differently?”