Page 110 of October
"Today's is cedar, blackcurrant, and the way your voice sounded the first time you said you missed me out loud."
He'd breathe it in slowly, always careful with things I made. "So basically, me in a bottle."
I smiled. "A little less arrogant."
We had built a rhythm again, different, deliberate. We were still going to individual therapy, still showing up to couples counseling like students learning how to speak. But we were trying. No,we were succeeding. The distance between us was no longer cold or barbed, but tender and navigable.
Thomas had moved back a few weeks after the shop opened. Not all at once. It was slow, intentional, like relearning how to live together without slipping back into old fractures. First, him sleeping on the couch. Then, his favorite mug reappeared in the cupboard. Then Lola reaching for him every morning like she always had, no hesitation in her tiny hands and Alice—so young, so decisive—announcing over breakfast, "Can Daddy stay forever now?" as if she were the one signing the lease on his return.
But Jimmy... Jimmy held back.
He didn't say much during those first few weeks. A silence that felt like a thousand questions he was too afraid to ask. He watched from the edges, polite and careful, as though he were tiptoeing across a bridge that had once collapsed beneath him. He was scared. Scared to believe it was safe to hope. Scared to hand us his heart again only to watch us drop it.
We brought it up in family counseling. We talked about how to move gently, to let the kids set the pace. We made it clear to Jimmy, without pressure, that this wasn't about pretending nothing had happened. It was about healing honestly, taking one step at a time. Slowly, those steps came. It wasn't a leap. It was a gradual, cautious drift toward trust. But each time Jimmy let himself lean a little closer, it felt like the most sacred kind of courage.
Then, one soft, unexpected afternoon, he brought Carissa over. His first girlfriend. She had black nail polish chipped at the edges and a silver ring on her thumb that she fidgeted with. Her eyeliner was smudged just enough to look accidental, and there was something in her eyes, sharp, tired, like she'd seen too much of the world already. But then Jimmy said something under hisbreath, and she laughed and it was like the entire hardness of her fell away for a second. She smiled when he smiled. It was instinctive. Like she couldn't help it.
And him, God, the way he looked at her. Not in that performative way teenagers sometimes adopt, but like she was his favorite secret. His safe place. He stood a little taller when she was around. A little less guarded. He pulled out chairs for her without realizing it, let her steal fries from his plate, and carried her bag like without her asking.
They sat close, shoulder to shoulder but never tangled. She tucked her knees to her chest and leaned into him, and he'd rest his chin on her hair like it was the most natural thing in the world. Sometimes they whispered and giggled in corners, and I caught glimpses of doodles on her notebook, hearts and initials and tiny lyrics, drawn with the kind of shy care that only comes at that age, when love is terrifying and thrilling and sacred.
One evening, I passed by the living room and saw them sharing headphones, watching something on his phone. He wasn't even watching the screen; he was watchingherwatch it, smiling like he'd just discovered something warm in winter. They were indeed in love.
Love wasn't the only thing changing around us. New bonds were forming, ones none of us had planned for but now felt essential. Beth and August had formed the kind of unexpected friendship that made perfect sense once you saw them together. Where Beth was bold, August was thoughtful; where August hesitated, Beth leapt. They balanced each other, challenged each other. Gave one another space to be exactly who they were without apology.
I think it surprised them both how close they became. How natural it felt. One day, they told me. Over wine and soft music in our kitchen, Beth announced it with a grin and August followed with a gentle, almost embarrassed smile.
"We're leaving," Beth said.
"For a while," August added quickly. They were going abroad. No real map, no rigid itinerary—just two women chasing something wild and unfinished. Adventure, stories, silence, healing. Whatever they found along the way.
August needed it. I knew that in my bones. She'd carried too much for too long, grief, longing, the quiet ache of having to stay strong after a heart-wrenching betrayal, and Beth, in her fierce, unfiltered way, was the perfect person to take her hand and say,Let's go.
The morning they left, they sent me a text in our group chat:
Don't wait for life to make sense. Make it meaningful instead O.
— B & A"
I stood there for a long time, staring at it. Smiling. Crying a little. Missing them already.
My life felt a little emptier without Beth's teasing remarks or August's gentle presence, but it also felt full of the joy of what they were doing. I was proud of them and I knew they'd come back with stories stitched into their laughter. Sun in their hair. New lines on their faces and new light in their eyes.
I missed them. God, I missed them but I was happy for them, too. Fiercely happy.
Then came another pair who decided it was time to go—my parents.
They had been our rock during the hardest months. A quiet, unwavering presence through every storm. When everything was falling apart, they were there—anchoring me with cups of tea, folded laundry, warm meals left on the stove, babysitting, and words I didn't even know I needed to hear until they were said.
My mother was a fortress. She didn't talk much about emotions, but she knew when to hold my hand, when to silently do the dishes beside me, when to show up with a bag of groceries and a knowing look that said,You don't have to be strong right now. I've got you.She was the help I didn't always ask for but always needed. Solid. Fierce. Protective in the quietest ways.
And my dad—my dad was a different kind of comfort. Funny, steady, always lightening the mood when things got too heavy. He had this way of sneaking joy into even the darkest corners. Jokes in the kitchen. Whistling down the hallway. Teaching Jimmy, and Thomas, how to change a tire while sneaking him bits of life advice in between sarcastic comments. He never made a show of it, but he was always watching. Always ready to step in.
They'd stayed long after the worst had passed, and I think in some quiet way, they were waiting until I truly smiled again. Until the house felt like a home again. So when they sat us down one evening, hands folded across the table like they had rehearsed it, and said they were thinking of finally taking that long trip through southern Italy they'd always talked about, I couldn't even pretend to be surprised.
"It's time," my mom said gently. "You've got this now." I just smiled and nodded, feeling sad but understanding.
Thomas however was a different story. He just got up and went to the kitchen to "make dinner because it was getting late."
