Page 21 of That Reunited Feeling

We’re both silent for a second, the air between us thick with history.

It’s half awkward and half the most natural, normal thing in the world. Like we’ve waited a lifetime to be this close to each other and it’s all falling back into place.

But this time, she has nothing and I have everything. I fight the urge to reach for my checkbook and solve all her problems with the sweep of a pen. Nothing would make me happier. But this oh-so-proud independent woman would blow her lid again if I offered to help. And the last thing I want is to take ten steps back from this inch of progress.

I’ll just have to think of a way to help her that doesn’t look like I’m helping her.

The silence is shattered by a rumble in her belly.

“Right, that’s it.” I head back toward the food spread out on the counter. “Do not move. I’m bringing you something to eat.”

Again, I open one cabinet, then another, then another.

“Plates are in the one next to the stove,” she says.

“Thank you.”

As I open the cabinet door and gaze at Maggie and Jim’s best china, it’s impossible to suppress the chuckle that rises within me.

“What?” Hannah asks.

“You know what’s hilarious?” I look at her over my shoulder.

“Not a clue.” Her face is no longer tight with sadness.

“The thought that Jim is currently trapped in a movie theater for two hours watching robots smash the living shit out of aliens to a heavy metal soundtrack.” A laugh spontaneously rocks out of me.

Hannah’s cheeks blossom. “And it’snotfunny that Maggie’s there too?”

And we laugh together. For the first time in seventeen years.

7

HANNAH

“B

etter?” Tom asks as I stuff the last morsel of delicious pasta salad into my mouth.

I nod and lean back in the chair at the family-sized dining table by the wall of windows.

Sitting here opposite him feels so damned good. Irritatingly, infuriatingly good. And I could not be more frustrated with myself. How did I let him talk me into staying?

Over the years, the anger and hurt had turned into more of a tragic disappointment. But the shock of bumping into him the other morning brought all the fury roaring back to the surface.

This evening, though, his charm and apparent desire for me to stick around have somehow turned my emotional dial down from painful animosity to reluctant tolerance. And now, with the bottle of wine emptied into our glasses, some food in my belly, and an awful lot of surprisingly easy casual chatting, the reluctant tolerance has somehow morphed into a reluctant good time.

We’ve talked about everything, but also nothing—nothing of substance, at any rate.

We haven’t touched on anything to do with our actual lives, I just asked him to tell me about how he started the business, and we took it from there. Nothing about his ex-wife, nothing about Dylan’s dad, nothing about the guy I just left, and nothing about the real reason we’re moving to California.

But what he said earlier was right—we do have to live under the same roof for at least a couple months. And spending every day hating him would be exhausting. I have more important things to spend my energy on than resentment.

However, there is no way I’m going to be his friend. I can’t be friends with someone who destroyed all my trust in them. But there’s a huge gulf between non-hate and friendship, and this evening has brought me to the conclusion I need to exist somewhere in there. I just need to keep it as far away from the friendship line as possible.

“Excellent,” Tom says.

He stands up, his crotch appearing above the level of the table, drawing my eyes to the neat denim package.

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