Page 77 of Falling for You Again

“Any time before next Friday.”

“Got it. I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“No problem.” He hangs up.

I stare at the desk with a frown. Those were the most words he’s spoken to me at once in years.

My phone rings. Aaron’s attorney is calling. I feel a quiver of dread.

“Hello?”

“Meli, hi. It’s Nash. Your papers are ready. Lauren emailed them for your review.” His assistant.

“Are they ready to sign?”

“If everything looks all right to you, then yes, go ahead and sign. Aaron’s already read through them.”

My traitorous heart thrums at the mention of my soon-to-be-ex’s name. “So once we both sign, we’re divorced, just like last time.”

“After the mandatory ninety-day cooling-off period, yes, it’s final. Here’s the thing: Aaron won’t sign unless you personally serve the papers.”

He wants to change my mind.

“He promised he wouldn’t contest.”

“He’s not contesting. But I advised him that you have every right to refuse. If you in any way feel threatened or aren’t comfortable doing so—”

“I’ll do it.”

I close my eyes and take a breath. It won’t be easy, seeing him in person, but I need to finish what I started. If my serving Aaron with our divorce papers is his only demand, I’ll grant it.

“We’re all set, then,” Nash says. “I’ll have Lauren email you to get a couple dates, and she’ll coordinate a meetup between you and Aaron. Any location requests?”

That’s a no-brainer.

“Perkatory.”

The name of our favorite coffee shop couldn’t be more apt. Purgatory, itself, is a state of transition, exactly where I’ve been stuck.

A few days later, I’m back in Aaron’s neighborhood, wishing the weather reflected my mood as it does in movies and books when the protagonist is on the cusp of a monumental change. Dour clouds and sheets of rain would be suitable given how I’m feeling. A thunderstorm would be fitting for what I’m about to do. I deserve a good drenching for breaking my promise to Aaron. But the clear sky, so bright it’s almost cartoonish blue, speckled with wisps of clouds that look like a pastry chef flicked globs of whipped cream on a wedding cake, seems out of place. This is beach weather. I should be at the Cape under a canvas umbrella, reading the latest Camille Pagán novel instead of thirty seconds and ten yards away from serving my husband with divorce papers.

But here I am, standing across the narrow road, watching through the picture window as he makes his way from the counter to our table inside Perkatory. Divorce was my idea, after all. I’m the one insisting. Then again, he changed the terms of our marriage of convenience. Icould argue he broke our deal first. He made me fall in love with him. And I did, even though I swore to myself I wouldn’t.

Aaron settles into his chair at our table and slouches over a ceramic mug he doesn’t touch. He’s probably ordered his usual Americano; no sweeteners for him. And the seat across from him—my chair—probably won’t be empty for long. Not that I don’t plan to sit with him when I motivate myself to get over there. I’ll sit with him, briefly, assuming he wants to talk before he signs the paperwork. He’ll try to convince me in that unsubtle, nonconfrontational way of his to change my mind. But I tell myself that Fallon will soon replace me, accompanying him every morning for coffee as she should. She is the mother of their child.

I study him while I wait for the light to change. His hair is mussed and in need of a trim. Even from this distance, I can tell he hasn’t shaved in several days. He isn’t dressed in his daily uniform of slacks and a long-sleeve button-down; no need to since his mom fired him from the Savant House. But he’s not even wearing the jeans or boots he would at his woodshop. Instead, a rumpled shirt I suspect he’s slept in and navy joggers have replaced his workday finery. Seeing him so down squeezes the breath from my lungs. My leaving has really messed him up.

But I’m determined to stay the course. Divorcing him before we have a chance to hurt or further disappoint each other is the right thing to do.

I then notice the second mug on the table. It’ll be an oat-milk caramel macchiato with two raw sugars on the side. My Perkatory usual.

A pang of sadness stabs my ribs. Why does he have to be so nice? Soperfect? I remind myself again I’m doing us a favor.

“Gorgeous day, isn’t it?”

I glance at the shorter woman waiting on the curb beside me. She’s looking at the sky.

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