Page 54 of Common Grounds

The three dots appear and disappear at the bottom of the screen a few times while I watch, frowning. Finally, her message comes through.

Cass: It’s a really long story, but Trevor and I got to talking and he said you told him about Derek.

My body goes cold again, but this time with barely suppressed rage at them talking about me behind my back. About things that are nobody’s business but my own.

Emery: How did that even come up?

Cass: Like I said, long story. I haven’t heard from you since Monday, so I had to check in.

Emery: I’m fine. Momentary lapse in judgment. But I definitely don’t love you talking to him about me.

I’ve mostly been too wrapped up in my own thoughts about Trevor, but she doesn’t need to know that. Luckily, she messages again quickly.

Cass: Can I blame the pregnancy for my lack of judgment?

Emery: No.

Cass: That’s fair. I’m really sorry.

I slam my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose. I take in a deep breath, letting the stale newsroom air expand my chest and slow my heart rate as much as it can. I stretch my neck back and forth as I try to recover from the whiplash of so many strong emotions. Cass is always a little chaotic, but this is next level.

After a few deep breaths, my head feels clearer. I’m not actually angry at her. My divorce is an objective fact about me, and I had already decided to share that with Trevor. She didn’t know that, but she was probably only trying to help. She knows I hate it when people find out and look at me all sympathetically. The tilted heads, the drooped shoulders, the sad smiles, the raised eyebrows. All because he cheated. I don’t need people’s pity. And I certainly don’t need them thinking anything is wrong with me for not being able to stay married longer than a couple of years. My parents have voiced that particular opinion enough.

But the fact that she was talking to him like he’s my boyfriend or something is a clear sign that things have gone way too far. If the past two days are any indication, I’m more interested in him than I should be, and now the next time I see him, I’ll have to worry about all of this all over again, and my panties will instantly dry up. Cass did me a favor.

Emery: It’s okay.

Cass: That is remarkably, suspiciously cool of you, but I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Hoping this is a natural end to the conversation, I return my phone to my desk and try to focus my thoughts back on my draft. But despite everything I’ve told myself, a small tug of disappointment pulls at me that I’m about to bring whatever this is with Trevor to a crashing halt. It’s not that I ever thought it could go anywhere. It couldn’t. I am who I am, and he is who he is. And yet, his shop has started to become a balm to my soul in a way. Maybe he has, too.

I shake my head violently. Nope. Not going there. Time to get to work. I decide it’s a good idea to grab the links to the shop’s social media accounts, since they’re now under new management. Though I chuckle quietly to myself at the idea of James’ band. That bit of information sure explained a piece about him. I bet he’s great at stuff he’s passionate about and can’t get the hang of the rest. It would make working in a coffee shop pretty difficult for him if that’s the case. Maybe he can find his footing working Trevor’s social media. That would be good for both of them.

Derek used to be like that. He’d spend hours upon hours poring over his writing. When it came time to pay the bills, though, he would always fail at the more menial jobs we needed for the money before we were both hired at The Gazette. After that, he flourished. We both did, even if he had to work a bit harder at it than I did. He never quite got over how easy it was for me to write the words, then leave the office. I always figured an editor was going to tear it apart anyway, so why spend hours trying to find the perfect words only to be disappointed when the editor changed everything you loved? But he insisted, saying it was better to have passion about something than treat everything as coldly as I did.

To me, it was just a job. One I loved, but a job, nonetheless. There are more important things than work. Or, at least, I thought that way when I assumed there was no possible way I’d ever leave The Gazette. Joke’s on me, I guess, because he’s still there, and I’m not.

And, on top of it all, when my parents found out Derek wasn’t laid off, they used it as ammo for their litany of reasons why I should be thankful a man like him wanted to be with a woman like me. Without a job, husband, or kids, I was useless—their word, not mine.

I try not to think about it very often. Because it still hurts when I do.

Randall’s office door swings open, and he saunters out. He catches my eye and nods briefly. “Darlis,” he says. “Looking forward to this week’s article.” There’s no malice or sarcasm in his statement. He even kind of smiles at me. It’s so jarring, I don’t know what to do but nod back.

Maybe Trevor was right. Maybe coffee really will help soften him up.

Against my better judgment, I click out of the shop’s website and over to Derek’s byline. I scroll through a few of the headlines. It’s all his typical stuff—mostly political reporting. When we were together, I took a cursory interest in the nitty-gritty of politics because I felt I had to for his benefit. Not that he ever bothered to take an interest in my features. Now, I pay attention to politics as much as any good citizen should. Certainly more than the average citizen does, anyway. But it’s always a relief when I can scroll past the analysis of the latest ruling of the State Supreme Court and the like, as I’m doing now.

“I don’t know why you do that to yourself.” Ethan’s voice startles me out of my thoughts. I quickly minimize the window as if he hadn’t seen its incriminating contents. He’s standing behind me, holding a mug of something steaming. From here, it smells like chamomile.

I sigh. “I’m a glutton for punishment lately, I guess.”

Ethan tilts his head, regarding me sadly. “What’s going on, Em?”

“I don’t know.” I bury my face in my hands, then drag them down my face. The pressure of my palms feels good against my skin. “Believe it or not, I liked being married, you know? Maybe not to that prick, but in general.”

Ethan leans over me to set his mug on my desk, then grabs a chair from an empty cubicle and pulls it up. He leans his elbows on his thighs and presses his hands together between them. He looks every inch his usual therapist role in his tailored slacks, vest, and glasses. I almost want to laugh.

“What is bringing this on?” he asks, and the transition to therapist is complete.

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