Page 89 of Miss Matched

He’s no longer looking at me. His eyes move around the room, and I know I’m not the person he sees in front of him.

“Even though she knew her time was short, she told me she still wanted me to have it. The life we talked about. And it took me a while to get to the place where I thought that was possible.” He pauses. “It wasn’t until I met Jessica.”

His mouth tenses at the mention of her name, and I feel mine mirror it. The gold digger that slipped past my careful screening process. Paul might not be justified in his reactions, but it’s my fault Jessica was able to get to him in the first place.

“But she wasn’t Charlene,” Paul continues. “I always knew it, deep down, that something was off, that she didn’t love me, and I didn’t love her. After all, I’d already given my heart away long before Jessica came for it.”

His eyes snap back into focus.

“I don’t expect anything,” he says, playing with the hem of his sleeve. “I just had to let you know that I’ve realized my anger was misplaced, and wrong, and I’m sorry. I’ll be paying for damages, and you won’t see me again.”

Air catches in my throat. The bubble of something inside ready to pop.

Paul stands up and pushes the chair out to leave. And even though my skin is crawling with all this information, I still find myself needing one more answer from him.

“Paul.” I stop him before he reaches the door.

His eyebrows lift at the mention of his name, his mouth holding the hard line of a clenched jaw.

“Why did the article make you change your mind?” I ask him. “It basically called me a homewrecker and reinforced the idea that I’m a terrible person.”

He stops and looks out the window. It’s an unusually sunny day for this time of year, and the beams are bright, bringing light to the deep lines on his face.

“It was the picture.” His stare flicks to me. “The look on that guy’s face when he was leaving your apartment. It reminded me of how I felt about Charlene. About how I was already broken before I came to you for help, and it’s not your fault there was no fixing it.”

Then he turns and walks away, leaving me alone in the conference room with that image of Zac in the newspaper burned into my brain. That smile that shattered me into a million pieces. A smile brighter than any photo could capture.

My chest hurts from deep breaths. I should feel comfort, relief, knowing I forgave Paul before he walked out the door. Maybe even before today. We were always aware there was blame to go around, and we just needed to work through it. But instead of comfort, my head aches with Paul’s final words.

What if he’s right? What if once a heart is given, you never get it back? What do I do with that?

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