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“Please, Jesus called. He needs his cross back.” Georgie slams her magazine shut. “Can we please skip this part? We both know you’re going. You’d be crazy not to go. You love that man.”
“But he is offering me exactly what Paul did. And look how my previous relationship ended.”
Of course, I relayed everything that happened to Georgie. All the bad stuff. The Grace stuff.
My sister stands up and rounds my chair. She places both her hands on my shoulders and digs her thumbs into my sore muscles in a massage. “Heartbreak is a terrible reason not to give love a second chance. It’s like swearing off food because of food poisoning. Or . . . or . . . I don’t know! Like avoiding ice cream because you don’t like one flavor. Love has so much more to offer than heartbreak. It’s hope. It’s butterflies. It’s wisdom. It’s family and shelter. Peace and babies.”
I clutch one of her hands over my shoulder, letting out a shaky breath.
“I may not be able to have children. He says he doesn’t mind, but what if he does? What if he will, Georgie?”
She freezes for a moment. She’s been circling this subject for a while now, trying to get more information. I, on my end, never gave her an answer. Too afraid I’d break down if I open the subject. Not anymore. Now it’s all out in the open.
Georgie regroups. She clears her throat and returns to massaging my shoulders. “What if the sky falls? What if a meteor strikes us tomorrow? What if a war breaks out between us and Canada? I know, they’re nice, but can we truly trust people who buy their milk in bags? I’ve seen somethin’ about it on the news. It’s a thing, Winnie. And it’s real.”
“Thanks for the detour.” I look up at her, grinning.
“It’s not just a detour, hon. I mean it. Maybe you won’t be able to have kids. But that could be said about every single woman out there who isn’t currently pregnant. And as far as I know, men don’t ask for fertility proof from the doctor before popping the question. Life, by definition, is a gamble. You win some, you lose some. The important thing is—always lose with a victorious smile.”
But I think it is more than that. In this game of life, the really important part is not who wins or who loses. It is that you and your partner have the same goal. The same endgame.
Ever since Arsène left yesterday, I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t even breathe properly. All I did was think about him and his offer. An offer I cannot refuse, even if it means putting my heart on the line again.
“But . . . what do I do?” I rub my cheek. “Do I just show up at his place?”
“I mean . . .” Georgie pushes away from me and grabs her iced coffee. “A phone call would be anticlimactic, considering the circumstances. Especially as he’s come here twice now. That’s a Hugh Grant–level gesture right there.”
“You don’t even like Hugh Grant.” I frown. “You once said he was an inarticulate fool.”
“I like what he represents, okay?” Georgie rolls her eyes, sucking hard on her straw. “Now go pack a bag. This room ain’t big enough for both of us.”
My body stands up of its own accord, and I’m moving toward our bedroom, in a weird, unbreakable trance.
It is time to hit Arsène with a truth stick. Even if I’ll have to admit said truth to myself first.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
WINNIE
New York is cool and splendid in a dozen shades of gray and blue as I cab it from LaGuardia Airport into the city.
Fall has conquered every inch of Manhattan. The trees are naked, tall, the branches curling into themselves, shriveling from the frost.
My first stop is my apartment. My apartment, not Paul’s. I stand and stare at it for a few minutes, hands balled over my hips, taking inventory one last time.
Then I grab all the junk mail from my mailbox, open a trash bag, and throw everything inside.
Possessed by energy I haven’t had in forever, I proceed to my fridge, throw it open, and yank out all Paul’s yogurts. His pickle jar. His favorite smoothies. Moon cakes. All gone. I shove my sleeves up my elbows and scrub the fridge clean. The residue of expired food assaults my nostrils, sour and lingering. I don’t stop until it’s spotless, laughing soundlessly when I remember how I’d given up on using the fridge so I wouldn’t have to deal with the stench of the food.
Then I move on to the rolled newspapers I kept for him.
He is not coming back. Even if he did, in another life, in another universe—he can buy his own darn newspaper. The only news flash he needs is this: he was a bastard who tried to kiss my sister and impregnated another woman while we were married.
