Page 20 of Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar 2)

I asked him to go to marriage counseling. He agreed but never showed up to a single session.

My life spiraled. I became a woman lost without her marriage as an anchor. And one night, when my hope in Finn and our relationship had been truly slaughtered, I drove the final nail into our coffin.

I made a mistake I’d always regret. I got drunk at a friend’s bachelorette party.

I had sex with another man.

The next day, I told Finn the truth. I told him how I was at rock bottom. That I loved him and desperately wanted to revive our marriage. I begged him for forgiveness.

He told me to get a lawyer.

Honestly, I probably would have said the same. Some mistakes were unforgiveable. Some mistakes came with a regret that lived like a monster in your soul.

I shook myself into the present, shoving that monster way down deep. All of that drama was ancient history now. Finn and I were divorced. He was happier that way. So was I.

Except with his letter in my hand, it was hard not to question every day since. We’d had so much love. How did we get here? How did we get all the way from that letter to us now?

The rock in my gut told me there was only one thing to do.

The letter had to go. I tightened my grip, ready to crumple it into a tiny wad, but my fingers lost their strength.

“Fine.” I refolded the letter and jammed it into my purse. I wouldn’t throw it away, at least not yet. Instead, I’d return it to Finn.

I’d return it and remind him that our marriage was dead. Those happy times were dead.

And there was no use stirring up old ghosts.

Three

Finn

Hours after I’d been kicked out of Molly’s bed, I walked into The Maysen Jar, scanning the open room for her. But she must have been in the back with Poppy because it was just Mom at the espresso machine. I crossed the room to the black marble counter at the back.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Finn.” She smiled over her shoulder. “What a nice surprise. Give me one minute to finish up this latte.”

“Take your time.” As she went back to steaming milk, I slid into a stool next to Randall, one of the regulars at the restaurant. “Morning.”

The old man jerked up his chin but didn’t return my greeting. His cane was propped in the space between our stools. His gray driving cap rested on his knee.

“How are you?”

All I got was a one-shoulder shrug.

Randall didn’t like me much. I didn’t take it personally, because Randall James didn’t like anybody much except for Poppy and Molly. He gave them a hard time constantly, griping that the background music was too loud or the lights were too bright. Any bullshit complaint he could dream up. He bitched and moaned because they limited the number of apple pies he could have in a day, but he loved them.

He’d been their first customer, barging into The Maysen Jar before it had even opened. And to my knowledge, he’d been here nearly every day since.

Randall sat in the same stool every day, one that Poppy and Molly had marked reserved so no one else would dare sit there. They didn’t want customers to face his grumpy wrath. The seat on his right was also reserved, that one for Jimmy. He and Randall did everything together, including pretend they were archenemies.

“Morning, Finn,” Jimmy greeted.

“Hi, Jimmy. How are you today?”

“Doing just fine. Be better if the Rockies could hire a damn pitcher.”

Randall scoffed. “They don’t need a pitcher. What they need are a couple of players who can hit the damn ball.”