Page 32 of Where We Belong

This time, I don’t let myself wallow in misery over Benedict. I shove him into the darkest corner of my mind, buried next to my mother and others who have hurt me or my family. He will stay locked away for good.

Around five p.m., Bodhi texts inviting me to dinner. Excited at the prospect of finally meeting his kids, I accept immediately. But as he pulls up in his Porsche thirty minutes later, I realize with sinking disappointment that it’s just the two of us.

“Thought you had the kids tonight?” I ask, securing my seatbelt.

“I do, but it’s their grandfather’s birthday. Miriam took them to celebrate with her parents,” he explains casually.

I’ve never been divorced myself, but this seems… odd. “You two seem to have a very, very friendly relationship.”

He shrugs. “What’s the alternative to getting along?”

“I guess you’re right,” I murmur, leaning back in my seat. I try convincing myself this isn’t a big deal—he never actually promised I’d meet his kids tonight. But resentment still prickles under my skin.

I am my own worst enemy, setting expectations and giving endlessly just to be disappointed. Well, it’s mostly love, and the only recipient is Benedict. For years I surrendered myself to him, hoping that he’d fall for me. Like a movie, I recall every single moment when he didn’t do what I had hoped.

Like my high school graduation. He came with my family, and while everyone hugged me and congratulated me, he just said, “You two did great.” Not just me, but also Huxley. By then, he knew how much I hated it when people lumped us into just one person. I love my twin, but some people think we function as one—we don’t.

Every Christmas, we exchanged presents, and I foolishly hoped he would finally look at me and say, “I love you, Cordelia.” Nope. He never did. There’s the time when the entire family gifted me the inn—he offered to partner with me. We began to work on it, but then let it fall into despair, fractured like my heart and our relationship.

“Cory? You still with me?” Bodhi’s voice snaps me from my spiraling thoughts.

I refocus, smoothing my expression. “Sorry, you were saying about divorce…”

“Right,” he continues, eyes on the road. “Some people go to extremes to prevent their ex from being happy. It wasn’t easy at first,” he admits after a pause, hands tightening on the wheel. “But we agreed to co-parent peacefully for the kids’ sake. They still live in our family home full-time. Miriam and I just trade off staying there every other month.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Are you telling me that you two still live together?”

“I wouldn’t phrase it that way,” he says, a bit defensively.

“But you have the same address. Even if you’re not there at the same time, you still live together,” I point out, suspicion creeping into my tone. Gatsby’s warning echoes in my mind at how little I truly know about Bodhi. “Do you ever share the same roof?”

After a lengthy pause, Bodhi finally concedes, “We do spend Christmas in the same house—for the sake of the children. There’s also the odd day when Story is having a hard time.”

I cross my arms. “So, whatever happened to her boss? The one she was in love with.”

Bodhi clears his throat, staring fixedly ahead at the road. “As I mentioned, things weren’t that simple in the beginning. I’m not proud of my actions back then.”

“What did you do?” I press, imagining the worst.

My mind spirals with the worst possibilities. My own mother killed my father when they couldn’t agree on divorce terms. For all I know, Bodhi hired a hitman to dispose of Miriam’s lover. I scan the road ahead, plotting my escape in case he decides I’m next.

“Oh, I just added a clause that neither of us can remarry until Tallulah turns eighteen. Neither one of us can introduce them to a love interest, unless it’s serious,” he explains casually. Glancing over, he’s grinning with sheer satisfaction, like he just got the best blow job ever.

His words sink in slowly. “So, neither one of you can get married in the next twelve years or so, huh?”

He nods and grins smugly. “Yeah.”

“You do understand that this affects you too,” I point out.

“I don’t care.” He shrugs. “I’m not planning more than… this.” His eyes flick to me briefly. “A fun relationship with a beautiful woman.”

“Fun,” I echo dully. “You never want marriage again. Just fun.”

I sound a little off. It’s not like I expected a proposal tonight, but we obviously want different things. We’ve already peaked. Any further growth is off the table.

“This… us, where do you see us in five years?” The question escapes before I can stop it. I need to know if I’m wasting my time on a dead-end here.

Around me, my family and friends are settling down, building futures with their spouses or in Hux’s case, his fiancée. And me? I keep trying to replace Benedict with carbon copies of him—emotionally unavailable men who will never give me what I truly want or need.

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