But it was a lie. I wasn’t sure of anything but how miserable I was without him. A thousand times I’d picked up my phone to call him, like I’d promised Abby I would, but every time, I remembered how much it hurt seeing him sitting next to that woman at the bar, and I’d set it down again.
Maybe it had all been a ploy orchestrated by Lenore, but Wes had played a role, hadn’t he? He’d stayed when he should have gone. That proved something.
What, that he’s a nice guy?
No! My stubborn side refused to give in. He should have said no to Lenore about the birthday dinner and no to a drink with that bitch who couldn’t even look me in the eye.
I wouldn’t call him. If I heard his voice, I might crumble.
Saturday at work, Georgia asked the same thing. “Have you heard from Wes?”
Just the sound of his name being spoken made my chest hurt. I wanted to say it out loud, wanted to whisper it in the dark. “No.”
“Pete says he’s miserable. Did you know he moved out of his mom’s house the night you broke up?”
I stopped what I was doing and stared at her. “No. Where did he go?”
“He stayed at a bed and breakfast for a few days, but now he’s in his new house.”
“He is?” I remembered walking through those empty rooms with him, how hopeful we’d been then. He’d asked for my help with the kitchen and I wouldn’t be around to give it.
Let Lenore help him. He deserves her hovering.
Even so, it didn’t make me feel any better.
I hadn’t heard from Lenore, either. No invitations to dinner, no requests for Abby to spend the night, and certainly no apology. I wasn’t planning on forbidding her to spend time with Abby, but hell if I’d go out of my way to arrange it. If she wanted to see her granddaughter, she could damn well put aside her pride and call me.
After work that day, I got in the car and drove past his new house very slowly, so slowly the car behind me honked, and I sped up.
Stop it. You’re being ridiculous, acting like a teenager spying on her ex-boyfriend. This is beneath you.
Abby asked again that night at bedtime if I’d heard back from him.
“Not yet,” I said, feeling guilty that I hadn’t even asked him yet.
“But this is my week. He has to come on Friday.” She looked up at me despairingly. “Can I try to call him?”
“No. I’ll—I’ll do it.”
But I put it off another day.
On Sunday night, after I put Abby to bed, I sat down on my bed and worked up the courage to text him.
Are you available Friday morning? That’s Abby’s day to have her special person at school. I understand if you don’t want to or if you’re unavailable.
Then I sat there holding my breath while those three little dots tortured me. He’s reading it. He’s writing back.
Was he at his house? Was he working on it? Was he looking at the lake? Was he standing in the kitchen? Did he miss me like I missed him? Like a piece of his heart was gone? Was he lonely at night? Did he wish he could hold me?
Those three fucking dots went
blurry, and I sniffed. God, I was sick of crying. I’d always been emotional, but the last couple weeks had been insane. I felt like I was fighting off tears at every little thing, whether it merited them or not. A baby picture of Abby on the mantle. My wedding ring tucked in its velvet box. A dead bird on the sidewalk out front. A silly Sandra Bullock movie on cable one night. (Although, in my defense, it was the one where she fell in love with the guy’s brother while he was in a coma.)
His reply appeared. I still couldn’t breathe.
Of course I am. I promised her I’d be there.
That’s it? That’s all he had to say to me?