“Actually,” I tell her, “that was what you requested. I didn’t agree to it.”
Her mouth falls open. “You little shit.”
“Guess I’m getting better at pushing after all, huh?” I smile and wave. “Love you, bye!”
She flips me the bird, leans in for a smooch to the screen, then ends the call.
I’ll send you a pic of Alex, I text her.
Olive branch not accepted, she texts back.Unless it’s a pic of Hot Chef’s hot ass.
I laugh as I pocket my phone and step over another Argos-chewed tennis ball. The warm breeze picks up and stirs the trees, whips my hair, lifting it from my sweaty neck. I stop, savoring the moment as I glance out across the yard and drink it in—the sunset that’s turned hazy nightlight soft as it hovers on the horizon, the comforting glow of Alex’s string lights that kick on, zigzagged above the yard.
It feels so right. And two years ago, standing in this exact place felt so wrong.
Two years ago, everything felt wrong. That’s when my life story unraveled, when my happily ever after ended in my ex-husband, Ethan, at my suggestion of couple’s counseling, suggesting that we get divorced. Then,verysoon after, falling for another woman. It felt like I was living a nightmare that I couldn’t wait to wake up from. And yet, it led me to this—a moment that feels like a daydream that I never want to end.
Smiling to myself, I take the three steps up to the stoop and open the door.
CHAPTER 2THEN
July 17, two summers ago
I loved this house—what used to be my home—but what I loved most was its door. Original to the home, dark polished wood with ornate carvings, it reminded me of the doors in some of my favorite stories, portals that transported their characters and me to a magical, otherworldly place.
When Ethan and I bought the place, I wanted our home to feel that way—warm and inviting, whimsical yet cozy, each room unique, telling a story, like you’d stepped into a new adventure. But Ethan wanted our home’s aesthetic to be “tranquil” and “cohesive,” and Ethan got his way. He always got his way. Because I let him. I thought that’s what love did—sacrificed, accommodated, did whatever it took to make the person you love happy.
Turns out, all it did was get me a house I never made my own before I had to give it up, and a simmering resentment that I’ll be reminded of this every week from now on, when I come either to pick up or part with Argos, my golden retriever.
The weather is miserable, which feels apropos for my first trip back to the house since I moved out. Gloomy skies, disgustingly muggy. Still, I chose to walk from my new apartment to my old house—knowing Ethan, he’s barely walked Argos the past week, and the dog will be desperate for exercise.
Brushing my humidity-frizzed hair back from my temples, I take a fortifying breath and start up the stairs. On my fifth step, I catch a noise ahead of me. I glance up and freeze.
There’s a man walking up to my house.
He seems oblivious that I’m behind him, which is awkward, though probably not as awkward as it would be if he knew I was staring at him as I trail him a dozen steps behind. I can’t help it, though. My curiosity is piqued.
As I hit the first stretch of flat concrete preceding the second long flights of stairs, I study him. Faded black Pirates baseball cap worn backward, black basketball shorts, beat-up white Nike high-tops, a white T-shirt. Tan skin. Dark licks of hair curling up beneath his ball cap’s brim. Tall, maybe an inch or two taller than me.
By the time I’m climbing the second set of stairs, I’ve moved on to theories about why he’s here. Repairman, coming to fix something (Ethan isnothandy)? Landscaper hired to maintain the garden I started? Maybe he’s here to ask Ethan if he wants to switch from Verizon to Comcast.
When he stops abruptly, I yelp, startled as I realize that while lost in my curious thoughts I significantly narrowed my following distance. I stumble sideways to avoid plowing into him.
The man spins and faces me, startling me again. There’s something familiar about him.
I stare at him, trying to figure out why. Deep-blue eyes, dark circles beneath them. Thick, scruffy stubble on his jaw and neck.His shoulders are slumped like he’s exhausted; his mouth is set in a hard, flat line. He exudes the same bleak aura of misery that I do. Maybe that’s why he feels familiar.
“Sorry,” we both say at the same time.
The man clears his throat, then says, “Didn’t realize someone was behind me.”
I start to force a smile because politeness, no matter how awful I’m feeling, was drilled into me growing up. Then I remember my parents are two hundred miles away, I’m a grown-ass thirty-three-year-old woman whose life just fell apart, and I don’t have to make small talk and smile if I don’t want to.
“I’m just going to, uh”—I point up the stairs—“keep going…” Then I add, because the people pleaser in me is dimmed, but she’s not dead, “Feel free to join.”
The man hesitates for a second, then falls into step beside me.
I thought it couldn’t get more awkward when I was trailing behind him. I realize, now that we’re taking the steps side by side, that I was wrong.