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“Hey, who’s older and wiser, here?”
“You’re older, but I’m having a hard time believing you’re wiser. If you were wiser, you’d have no trouble fessing up to your real feelings.”
“I can’t talk about this right now.” I back up, press my hands into the cold bar across the door. The latch gives way. “I have to go deal with Sylvester.”
Without waiting for her response, I step back into the warm kitchen.
Grandma and Dad both eye me with curiosity.
“Sure about that French toast?” my grandmother asks me, with a wave of her spatula.
“Maybe in a minute, Gran. I have to go have a chat with my ex first.”
I push through the swinging kitchen doors. My mom’s behind the counter now, jotting down an order from one of the regulars. My grandpa’s beside her. He gives me a worried look.
I give them both a wide berth and make it to the back booth without having to answer any questions.
Sylvester has his black hair pulled back in a low ponytail. He’s a few years older than me, and for the first time I notice a few thin streaks of silver that travel over the top of his head.
He’s bowed over the table. When I slip into the booth across from him I see that it’s because he’s studying his phone.
He snaps his gray eyes up to meet mine. “Maddison. At last.”
“You could have told me you were on your way to town when we talked.”
“I would have, if not for the abrupt hang-up. I tried to call several times afterward. Didn’t you listen to my messages?”
Besides changing his ringtone, I did nothing about those calls.
I gulp. “No.”
“Well then, perhaps the fault is yours. I won’t hold it against you, darling.” He reaches into his pocket.
When his hand emerges, it’s wrapped around a velvet box.
I recognize the box.
I remember when he got down on one knee and opened it up.
It wasn’t all that long ago, either.
I lick my lips and stare down at it as he carefully flips the lid, so the diamond ring is visible.
“I thought you might want to have this back,” he whispers.
I draw in a breath. My lungs feel tight, and it’s impossible to take in enough air. My stomach is wrapped in an uncomfortable knot. “I think I made my feelings on that clear when I left.”
“You are impulsive, darling. I do not blame you for your temper. Many creative types are this way.” He uses his index finger to push the ring toward me, two inches.
I’m reminded of playing checkers.
Only this is so much more serious than a mere game.
“Me leaving wasn’t impulsive,” I say, even though it’s very difficult to speak. “Please don’t act like I flounced out on some hasty, rash whim. I had a good reason to walk out on our life together.”
“Our creative differences should not affect our relationship.”
I feel no love for this man.
