Page 62 of October
Tears stung my eyes.
"You can host parties there, take the kids, escape for a weekend, or just... be alone. It's yours. A sanctuary. A quiet place to feel whatever you need to feel."
He looked down, then slowly lifted his eyes back to mine, and when he spoke again, his voice was thin, raw at the edges, like something barely holding itself together.
"I know I can't erase what I did," he said, every word shaped by regret. "There's no version of this where I undo the hurt, he inhaled shakily, and then said the hardest part.
"Maybe this place I built just becomes your space to heal... without me. Maybe that's what has to happen now. And if that's the case, I will carry that. Quietly. Without resentment. Because I caused this fracture. And I won't pretend I didn't."
There was a long silence before he added, softer than before, "I am sorry. For all of it. For the things I said and did, and more for the things I didn't."
He paused again, barely whispering now. "But I hope... even if it's far down the road, even if I never know it... I hope that garden gives you something. A kind of peace. A breath. A reminder that somewhere, amidst the brokenness, somethingbeautiful was still planted. And it grows, and it blooms. Even now.
Chapter Twenty: Notre Arbre
Thomas stood up slowly, like the weight of everything between us was pressing down on his joints. His eyes met mine for a long, quiet moment. I could see the yearning there—he wanted to hug me, maybe even kiss my forehead like he used to when things were simpler, when love wasn't layered with so much pain. But he didn't move. His hands twitched slightly at his sides, then curled into fists and dropped.
"I should head back to the hotel," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, rough at the edges.
"You're still staying there?" I asked, brow furrowing. I tried to keep the judgment out of my tone, but it slipped in anyway. "I mean... I know you come every night to see the kids, but that's not exactly stable."
He gave a small, tired laugh, then rubbed the back of his neck like he was trying to physically erase the shame. "Yeah... I was hoping this was just temporary. I told myself it was. But the more I reflect on what I did... the more therapy I go to... the more I realize there's no temporary fix for the kind of damage I've done. Not to you. Not to the kids. Not to myself. so I have been looking for houses close by."
I nodded slowly, my arms crossed without thinking. A kind of shield. He gave me a sad smile, the kind that said he understood, then turned and walked away, his footsteps muffled by the carpet, his shoulders slightly hunched like he was carrying a version of himself he was still learning how to let go of.
I stood there, rooted in place, listening to the silence he left behind. I wasn't just angry. That emotion was still there, simmering low and bitter, but it had been eclipsed by something heavier, grief. Not the kind that comes all at once, loud andobvious, but the slow, creeping kind that clings to everything. I felt it in my limbs, in the way I stood still even though I wanted to run.
I held the papers in my hands, stiff, sterile things, and thought about how I would have given anything for him to show up for me. In any shape or form. A word. A touch. Just proof that I still mattered. But he didn't. I'm afraid my heart is too bruised now, too tired from breaking open and stitching itself back together again in silence.
*****************
In the weeks that followed, Thomas continued to bring the kids home just before dinner. He always had; it was one of those quiet rhythms we fell into, an unspoken agreement neither of us ever revisited. Just the sound of the door opening and there he was: two backpacks slung over one shoulder, dinner in hand, his face wearing that gentle, unreadable expression.
The dinners were always homemade now. That surprised me. Before everything fell apart, he'd never cooked a day in his life. So he was either watching YouTube tutorials or someone was teaching him. But I didn't ask. I didn't want to know. He brought dinner for all of us, laid it on the counter, and never stayed. My parents never invited him in, and that was by my design. I didn't want to blur the lines, didn't want to confuse the kids more than they already were.
While I set the table or talked with my mother, he took care of the kids, helped Jimmy with his homework, played with Alice and Lola in the living room, his laughter a soft background hum I tried not to pay attention to. I watched them sometimes from the kitchen, trying to stay detached. Trying not to feel.
Then, like always, when it was time to go, he lingered near the doorway. He'd rub his palms together like he wasn't sure what to do with them, glance back at the kids, and then at me—but never for long. Just a flicker. Just enough to make something ache, then gone again.
"Goodnight, October," he said softly, voice warm and low like he didn't want to wake anything fragile. "Call me if you need anything."
I nodded automatically. But I didn't want to nod. I didn't want to be quiet anymore.
I stood there drying my hands on a towel, heart hammering. I thought of all the things I never said. All the questions I buried under pride and silence. then i remembered my therapist:"October, can I ask you something? Why do you assume people will know what you need if you don't say it? You've spent so long bottling things up, hoping others will just understand, but that expectation often leads to disappointment."
So I blurted it out.
"You never gave me a birthday present," I said, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. "After that... fiasco."
He froze. Stopped moving mid-step, head low, like I'd knocked the air out of him. Then slowly, almost painfully, he turned to look at me and nodded.
"We will talk about that horrid night when I am ready, I am still not," I added, "but you said you had a present, waiting to be delivered and you didn't give me anything."
"You're right," he said quietly. "I never did. I ..I actually have it in my car," he said after a beat. "I had it delivered the night you... the night you called her my mistress. I didn't give it to you. It felt ... like I was buying your forgiveness."
I crossed my arms. "So you just thought... what?Notgiving me anything was better?" He winced. Visibly. "or maybemoneyis better?" I added.
"There's no good answer to that," he admitted. "I genuinely apologise. I thought... maybe it was giving you freedom to buy what you want."
