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And she felt so happy, so excited, that she could barely contain herself.
Over dinner she told him about her day, starting with the new account she’d signed. She asked him how his meeting had gone. His one-word response, “fine,” didn’t deflate her good mood.
Things weren’t going to just suddenly be normal overnight. His suffering and the repercussions from it were real. But she could still find joy in small steps along the way.
“You’re eating well,” he said, while she gave herself the pep talk. And she was excited all over again. He was paying attention. Seemed to care.
So Winston.
“I feel fine,” she told him.
He nodded. Gave her a long look, and she held her breath, thinking he’d mention the baby. When he didn’t, she went back to eating.
He knew about the baby; that was the important thing. And he was there.
The rest would come.
Taking her cue from his personal comment, she told him that she’d let everyone at work know that he was back. She relayed their reactions and the personal good wishes to him that had been offered as well.
He forked the last bite of food on his plate. Chewed it. Swallowed.
And said, “I’ve been advised to tell you that I need a divorce.”
Chapter Ten
There was just no easy way to present it. He’d worked on it all afternoon and determined that the kindest thing was the old “ripping off the bandage” strategy. Do it quickly and get it over with. It seemed to hurt less that way.
At least the pain was swifter. So, presumably, one could get past it quicker.
Emily’s fork clattered against her plate, off the edge of the table, onto the floor. The hand that had been holding it was shaking. Pushing aside an urge to hold that hand, knowing that it was just programmed reaction left over from his years with her, he picked up her fork. Set it on the table.
His movement seemed to spur her into action. Jumping up, fork in hand, she went to the sink. Rinsed the fork. Pulled a paper towel off the roll. Dried the fork. Threw the paper towel away, carried the fork back to the table. Put it on her plate. Those long legs, in that skirt... In a former day he’d have pulled her onto his lap.
Emily picked up her plate and carried it to the sink. She’d changed her mind about using the fork she’d cleaned? Needed her plate cleaned, too? She’d eaten all of the broccoli salad and most of her chicken. More than half of the potatoes.
Leaving her plate at the sink, she came back to the table. He expected her to take his plate next. Cleaning the kitchen hardly seemed urgent at the moment, but if that was what she wanted to do, he wouldn’t stop her. Had to give her whatever time and space she needed.
He wasn’t going to push her. He had six months. And they had a lot to get through.
He wouldn’t push, anyway. She was pregnant, for God’s sake.
When his memory provided a sudden flash of his early-morning minutes with Emily in the spare bathroom, he swore silently. He’d just given her stress right after she’d eaten. Bad timing, that.
Leaving his empty plate in front of him, Emily sat back down. Folded her hands on the table in front of her. She’d curled her hair that morning, and the long blond strands touched the tops of her wrists, even with her sitting up straight.
Those ends would be silky soft. A whisper on skin.
“Who advised you?”
Not the conversation he’d expected.
He’d told her he’d answer any question honestly.
“A legal advocate.”
“When?”
“Today.”
