Chapter 8 - He Asked Me for Coffee
Eight months passed before Grant tried again.
Not with flowers.
Not jewelry.
Not a reservation at a restaurant requiring three months' notice.
Coffee.
“Would you have coffee with me?”
“We have coffee all the time.”
“With Lily.”
“Yes.”
“I mean without Lily.”
I stared at him.
“Are you asking me on a date?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
I almost laughed.
“You're terrible at this.”
“I haven't asked anyone on a first date in ten years.”
“You managed with Natalie.”
His expression changed.
I regretted the cheap shot almost immediately.
Grant didn't defend himself.
“You're right.”
That made it worse.
I sighed.
“Coffee.”
His eyes widened.
“Coffee?”
“Forty-five minutes.”
“I'll take thirty.”
“Don't negotiate.”
“Sorry.”
We met Saturday morning.
Grant arrived early.
Of course he did.
He wore jeans and a navy sweater.
No suit.
No expensive watch.
We talked about Lily first.
Then work.
I had returned to interior design and partnered with an old colleague, Maya Torres.
Our studio specialized in boutique hotels and residential spaces.
For the first time in years, I earned money with my own name attached to it.
Grant listened.
Actually listened.
“You always should've kept designing.”
“I know.”
He winced.
“Did I stop you?”
“No.”
Then I considered it.
“Not directly.”
“That's worse.”
“Yes.”
We sat quietly.
Grant stirred coffee he wasn't drinking.
“I made our marriage revolve around my life.”
“Yes.”
“I thought paying for everything meant I was contributing more.”
“You did.”
“I was an ass.”
“Yes.”
He looked up.
“You seem to enjoy that word.”
“Very much.”
He smiled.
So did I.
Then he became serious.
“I don't want you back because I miss having a wife.”
My chest tightened.
“I want you in my life because I finally understand who you were before I turned you into a supporting character in mine.”
I looked away.
“Grant.”
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
My voice softened.
“I loved you so much that leaving felt like cutting off part of myself. I won't ever do that again.”
“I'm not asking you to.”
“You eventually will.”
He shook his head.
“I’m asking for coffee.”
So we had coffee.
Two weeks later, another.
Then dinner.
Nothing happened quickly.
That was important.
I dated someone else briefly.
His name was Daniel.
A pediatric dentist.
Kind.
Funny.
Divorced.
Grant learned about him when Lily announced, with toddler enthusiasm, “Mommy friend Dan has dog!”
Grant's expression was unforgettable.
“Daniel has a dog?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Why does that matter?”
“It doesn't.”
It clearly mattered enormously.
I enjoyed that more than I should have.
But Daniel and I ended things amicably after four months.
There was no dramatic reason.
He wanted a relationship moving faster than I could offer.
I wasn't ready.
Grant did not celebrate.
At least not visibly.
Then came Lily's second Christmas.
Grant arrived at my house carrying one present.
One.
“Who are you?”
“I've changed.”
“Where are the other twelve gifts?”
“In my trunk.”
I stared.
He sighed.
“I tried.”
Lily tore through wrapping paper.
Inside was a wooden dollhouse.
Not expensive.
Handmade.
I ran my fingers over the roof.
“You made this?”
Grant looked embarrassed.
“I had assistance.”
“How much assistance?”
“A carpenter prevented structural collapse.”
I laughed.
Later, after Lily fell asleep, Grant and I sat beside the Christmas tree.
Snow covered the yard.
“Do you remember our first Christmas?” he asked.
“The apartment with no heat?”
“The landlord said sixty-two degrees was legally warm.”
“You threatened to buy the building.”
“I was twenty-nine and obnoxious.”
“You did buy the building three years later.”
“Still obnoxious.”
We smiled.
Then Grant reached into his pocket.
My body tensed.
“Relax. Not a ring.”
He placed an envelope on the table.
Inside was a letter.
Handwritten.
“I wrote it because I didn't want to manipulate you by saying it.”
I read.
It wasn't a request.
It wasn't a declaration that he'd changed.
It was an apology.
Specific.
For Natalie.
For the gaslighting.
For making me question myself.
For the financial secrecy.
For allowing his mother to control our marriage.
For making pregnancy lonelier than it should have been.
For treating forgiveness as something he might earn instead of something I could choose freely.
At the end:
I will always regret that losing you was what forced me to become someone capable of understanding why you left.
I folded the letter.
Grant looked nervous.
“Say something.”
“I don't know what to say.”
“That's fair.”
“I believe you.”
His eyes lifted.
“That doesn't mean everything disappears.”
“I know.”
“It doesn't mean we're getting remarried.”
“I know.”
“It doesn't even mean we're dating.”
He nodded.
I leaned forward.
And kissed him.
Grant froze.
I pulled back.
“That means I wanted to kiss you.”
He stared.
“Can I—”
“No.”
His face fell.
Then I smiled.
“Ask me tomorrow.”
For the first time in years, I walked upstairs leaving Grant Whitmore speechless.
It felt wonderful.
But life apparently believed we had enjoyed enough peace.
Because at 8:12 the next morning, Rebecca called.
Eleanor Whitmore had suffered a stroke.
And before being taken into surgery, she had asked for me.
May you like
Not Grant.
Me.
