Page 68 of October
Not the one with the playground and dog walkers and sticky-fingered children, butourpark—the quieter one, tucked behind the rows of old olive trees, where the benches were slightly crooked and the world always smelled faintly of earth and rosemary.
It was the place we used to walk to when we didn't want to talk but wanted to be near each other anyway. It felt like the right setting for this. Neutral ground for something that didn't feel neutral at all.
I saw him before he saw me, standing near one of the benches, scanning the paths like he wasn't sure which direction I'd come from. He was wearing those usual soft tones he always gravitated toward—beige, amber, something muted and forgettable but safe. Like he was afraid of standing out, of being noticed too much.
When he spotted me, he lifted a hand in a half-wave, unsure whether to smile or apologize first.
"Hi, October," he said, handing me the tea like a quiet peace offering. "I thought I was late, took a bit longer than I thought—the barista was... talkative. Kept asking if I wanted something sweet with it, then laughed and said something about not needing more sweetness." He gave a small, baffled shrug, like he was still trying to make sense of it. "Then something about working out, I don't know. Weird questions for tea, right?"
I nearly laughed. Ialmostdid. Typical. Even now, socluelesssometimes. The man could dismantle financial reports like second nature but couldn't tell when someone was hitting on him with neon signs. I almost softened then. Almost. But I didn't come here for that.
I shifted, the paper cup warming my fingers, and looked him dead in the eye. "What happened exactly the night you didn't come home and went to save her cat?"
No soft openings. No pleasantries. I'd rehearsed too many versions of this in my head, watered down, polite, indirect, and I was done with that now. His expression faltered, lips parting slightly like he'd been ready for small talk and I'd thrown him into deep water instead.
"You didn't leave because of some emergency," I said, "Or someone dying. Or a crisis you couldn't ignore." I stopped to gather my thoughts, "You didn't leave because the world was burning. You left becauseshecalled. And her cat was missing."
The words hung there between us, absurd and heavy at the same time. They echoed off the walls of everything we'd built and everything he'd cracked open that night.
"And then you called me callous hearted for being upset!!" I added.
He stood there, caught in it, with nothing left to hide behind. He didn't defend himself. Just nodded slowly.
"Okay," he began, his voice low, uneven, as if each word cost him something. "So... weeks before your birthday, something started gnawing at me—this slow, creeping guilt. I kept pushing it down, telling myself I had everything under control, but it was always there, just under the surface. It was about how much time I was spending away from you... and how much I was enjoying being at work. Not just working, but specifically working with Laura."
"It wasn't only that she was efficient or helpful—it was that being around her seemed to restore something in me. She made things easier, yes, but more than that... being close to her made me feel like I mattered again at the firm. Like I was finally back in Dad's good graces. He looked at me differently when she and I worked together—as if I was capable again, like I was finally the son he expected. I didn't want to admit how much I craved that. The recognition, the power. It felt good. I felt like a good CEO—sharp, excellent, important. Someone people respected, maybe even envied.
But even then, I told myself it wasn't wrong. You were my wife—youwere the personal part of my life, the person I came home to, the person I loved. Laura was in the professional part, making my job smoother and my worklife happier and easier. I thought I was drawing a clean line. I convinced myself that I was doing nothing wrong because—physically—"
He looked at me then, really looked, like he needed me to see something in his eyes. "Physically, I've never been with another woman. Only you. Always you. That hasn't changed."
I nodded stiffly. That used to mean something. Not so much anymore. He hesitated, the weight of it hanging in the silence.
" But still...I felt guilty. Guilty for missing so many dinners with you. Guilty for how often I looked at the clock and didn't rush home. Guilty because even if nothing happened between Laura and me, I thought that I was probably letting something slip."
He swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair. "I told Jimmy we can plan something special for you together. He was so excited. I made this whole list of things you love: your favorite flowers, tickets to that revival ofThe Sound of Musicyou mentioned months ago. Dinner at a new restaurant, and a cake with the kids once we got back, called my mom to stay with them while we were out—everything was planned."
His voice cracked, eyes flickering with a desperate kind of hope. "I wanted to make it right. I thought if I could just make one perfect moment, maybe I could erase the rest." He looked away, guilt pressing down like a weight. "But instead, I screwed it up. I hurt you. And that... that kills me every day. I wanted it to be memorable."
"Oh, it was memorable," I muttered bitterly.
"I know," he whispered, voice thick with the weight of something he'd clearly been holding back for a long time. "Everything was ready. I had the cake, the reservation, the whole evening planned down to the last detail except the necklace hasn't arrived yet, but it was coming."
He paused, eyes distant. "But that day... everything just collapsed on me. Work exploded. I made a massive miscalculation, something stupid, something Ishouldhave caught. The quarterly projections were off by millions. Completely off. The whole presentation fell apart in front of the board, and it was my name on it. My numbers. My responsibility."
He swallowed hard, jaw tightening, the shame still fresh in his voice. "My dad, he didn't even wait until the meeting ended. He ripped into me right there, in front of everyone. No filters, no professionalism, just full-blown humiliation. Like I was a child again, standing there with my mistakes on display for everyone to see."
He exhaled shakily, hands curling slightly as if trying to brace against the memory. "I froze. I couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Everything went silent in my head, and I just... sat there. Paralyzed, and then—of all people—Laura stepped in."
He glanced at me quickly, as if to gauge my reaction, then looked away. "She didn't hesitate. She took over the meeting, picked up the mess I'd left, started walking the board through what could be salvaged. She was calm. Controlled. Like the disaster didn't faze her. And then she did something I didn't expect—she took some of the blame. Said there had been a miscommunication between us. Said she should've double-checked the final numbers. She didn't have to do that, but she did. Just to give me a chance to breathe."
He looked back at me, his eyes heavy with guilt. "I told the board later that it was my mistake, that it wasn't on her, but by then the damage was done. She was the one who saved the day."
He looked down at his hands like he couldn't stand to see them. "By then, it was already too late. The dinner was supposed to be at seven, I checked my phone at eight-thirty. I was still at the office, sweating through my shirt, trying to fix numbers my mistakes and I told her she did enough she could go home. The show was over. I didn't even have your flowers. I felt like a fucking failure, as a CEO, as a husband, as a man. I knew you didn't call because you didn't know about the dinner and the show, only the cake with the kids to which I was already late."
He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated, like he wanted to claw his way out of his own skin. "I was driving home. I swear to God, I was. I even rehearsed what I was going to say. I was going to beg you to forgive me for being late, try to salvage something. at least have a cake as a family"
His voice dropped to a raw whisper. "And then she called."
