Page 67 of October
Bergamot, for clarity. for that Sunday when we were all piled in the kitchen, Alice drawing on the floor, baby Lola drooling on my shirt, and you just stood there making tea like the whole world wasn't falling apart around us. You always said bergamot helped you think clearer. Honestly? I should have drunk that damn tea instead I was worried about work.
Neroli, for comfort. That winter Jimmy was sick, and Alice was teething, and none of us had slept more than two hours in a row for a week—you tucked neroli oil under your pillow and said it reminded you of warm hands. I didn't get it then, but I do now. I started dabbing it on my scarf in the mornings after that.
Sweet pea, for remembering the good things. Like that picnic by the lake when we were just dating. You fell into the mud, the lemonade exploded on you, and you laughed until you were crying. I remember thinking that if I could bottle that laugh, I'd never need anything else. That was the first time I realized I'd marry you.
It was beautiful. Too beautiful for the ache in my chest. Part of me softened. Part of me curled tighter, like a fist refusing to unclench. Because I remembered what always came next. These moments, they were always temporary. Just as I'd start to enjoy them, his phone would buzz and thenhewould return: that version of him I hated—the polished, distracted, stone-faced man, always halfway out the door.
Mom glanced down at the bundle in my hands, brushing a thumb lightly over one of the petals. "Is it from your garden?"
"Yes."
"Are you ever going there?"
I swallowed. "I don't know. I'm not ready yet.I told him he can go and take care of it."
Silence stretched between us. Then Dad, folding his arms, asked, "Does he know about your studies?"
I shook my head. "No. He knows I love scents. He knows I'm... passionate. But not about the diploma. Not about the perfumery course."
Mom smoothed my hair like she used to do when I was sick as a kid.
"I have so many questions," I whispered. "For Thomas. About all of it. About why he did this, how he could hurt me like that, how he could look me in the eye knowing what I didn't know. And about... us. About everything I thought I knew."
Dad kissed the top of my head, firm but gentle. "Then talk to him, sweetpea. Ask. You deserve answers."
I nodded, biting my lip. "But I'm scared of the answers."
"I know," he said. "Sometimes the truth hurts like hell. But not knowing... that's worse. Not knowing is a weight you can't put down."
I buried my face into his shoulder again. I didn't feel brave. I didn't feel ready.
"The food smells amazing, actually," I said, more to fill the silence than anything else, changing the subject before the weight of what wasn't said suffocated the room.
"Yeah," they said with a quick laugh. "Thomas came by earlier, actually. Brought a whole bag of groceries—and get this—an actual written list of recipes." They pulled a folded paper from the counter, shaking it slightly. "Said he thought we should try this one because you once told himlemon makes everything taste like sunshine."
I did say that. Once. Ages ago. Lemon. Lemon zest in cakes, lemon in salad dressings, lemon in tea when I was sick—sharp, bright, alive. What shocked me wasn't the groceries or the recipe. It was that henoticed.After all these years of meals half-eaten, or quick breakfasts standing at the sink while he rushed emails on his phone, he remembered the lemons. Or maybe he was just trying to remember now. Too late, in that way men remember anniversaries when the argument's already started.
I went to my bedroom with the bouquet. The room looked the same, but I didn't feel the same. I sat on the edge of the bed like I was waiting for something, or someone, to catch me. My heart was beating so fast it felt like it was echoing in my throat when I reached for my phone.
I called him.
He answered almost immediately. "Hi. Are you fine? Need something? You okay?"
His voice was careful. "Yes," I said, too quickly. Then I corrected myself. "Yes... I mean—maybe."
The silence between us stretched like the gap between two people standing on opposite cliffs. Both waiting for the other to speak first.
I haven't called him since that awful night. Just brief texts about the kids—nothing more, nothing less. It's a sharp contrast to the wife I used to be—the one who would call just to hear his voice, the one who sent stupid little texts full of hearts and inside jokes. That version of me feels like someone else now. Someone I'm not sure I'll ever find again.
I drew in a breath, felt the weight of it, then let it out slowly. "I want to talk about... the night of my birthday," I said. My voice trembled just enough to make me angry with myself. "When you left me at home with the kids to go look for her cat."
Silence. But not the kind that hurts, not yet. This was the silence of someone thinking carefully, assembling words like someone stacking dishes too carefully so nothing breaks.
"Okay," he said at last. Low. Steady. "Whatever you need. Tell me when and where."
Chapter Twenty-Two: Answers
I chose to meet at the park.
