Page 68 of Letting Go

I don’t say anything. Just bury my face in his chest and let myself breathe.

The day unfolds in that sweet, molasses slow way that makes time feel optional, just me, Caden, and a very weird kind of almost domesticity. He lounges on the couch in sweatpants and a T-shirt that clings in all the right places, legs stretched out, one hand lazily petting Ruby, who has decided his lap is her throne now. Roxy rests with her head on his feet, she’s fully accepted him into our weird little pack.

Meanwhile, Keira’s holed up in the master bedroom, her bedroom now, silent as a ghost with boundaries. I knocked once. She didn’t answer. And honestly, I don’t blame her. After everything, if she wants to hide under a blanket burrito and pretend the world doesn’t exist for tonight, I’ll let her.

Tomorrow, I’ll check in. Talk about next steps, therapists, school, maybe even what kind of throw pillows she wants in the apartment. But not today. Today she gets to be invisible.

Caden and I? We’re very visible. But also, very PG 13. No touching below the equator. No suggestive whispering. No ravaging glances that say “strip now” when I lean across him to grab the remote. Which, by the way, he did not help with. He just sat there with that smug “I’m behaving” look on his face while my entire frontal body hovered an inch from his.

The restraint is… frustrating. And also, kind of sweet.

And I’m not used to sweet.

We talk. Like, actually talk. And I learn all kinds of ridiculous things about him. How he’s weirdly obsessed with true crime documentaries but can’t stand popcorn. Says it’s a “useless snack.” I try not to judge, but like, who hurt you?

He’s the youngest of three, and his brothers used to lock him in laundry hampers when he annoyed them, which might explain why he’s got this perfectly calibrated empathy thing going on. His parents are somehow still in love after thirty-seven years, retired, and currently RVing across the Pacific Northwest. It’s cute.

At one point, I blurt it out. The fear. The thing I keep swallowing down every time he looks at me like I’m something worth choosing.

“I’m scared,” I say, eyes on the ceiling, heart in my throat. “That this is too fast. That we’re a cliché. That I’m going to be the next office rumour.”

His hand slides over mine. Just that. No pulling me in. No rushing. Just… warmth.

“You’re the first person I’ve ever felt this way about,” he says, calm and clear and so certain it almost hurts. “And if you’re uncomfortable, really uncomfortable, we can slow down. But only if it’s you. Not the bullshit voices in your head of people who don’t know you.”

Oof. That hits like a gut punch wrapped in affection.

Because he’s right. I’m not scared of us. I’m scared of the narrative. That whole messy “she left her husband and was with someone else two weeks later” thing. I can already hear the whispers. “Slut.” “She must’ve cheated.” “Wow, that didn’t take long.”

And maybe I shouldn’t care. But I do. I still do.

So, we make a decision. Together. Keep it quiet. No social media. No office gossip. At least not until the divorce is final. But we’ll tell HR. Because technically it’s a preexisting relationship, and we’re both too competent to let this turn into a scandal. Hopefully.

Later, I catch him scrolling on his phone while Ruby snores against his chest and I’m curled into the crook of his arm.

“What are you doing?” I mumble.

He flashes me a guilty look. “Googling dog birthday cake recipes.”

And just like that, I fall a little harder. “Let’s go to bed.”

“What about Keira?” he asks.

“We’ll be quiet.” I promise that with a deep kiss, tracing his lips with my tongue, biting his lip.

He practically jumps up and puts Ruby in the crate while I check in on Keira first. The door’s cracked, and inside, she’s lying in bed, laptop paused on a frame of some animated show, a single earbud still in like shecouldn’t quite commit to being present. She looks like she’s paused too, frozen between worlds.

I hand her the pizza box I brought up.

“Don’t stay up too late,” I say gently. “We’ve got apartment tours tomorrow.”

She nods without looking up, but it’s the kind of nod that means she heard me. Progress.

“Keira,” once I have her complete attention, I say, “I forgave you, now it’s time for you to forgive yourself.”

She looks ready to cry. “How?”

And honestly, I have no answer. Apartment hunting might have to wait, seeing a therapist can’t.

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