Page 117 of Love Complicated

It’s my birthday.

When I was little, my birthday was a big deal. My parents used to go all out with a cake and a party, all of it.

When I was nine, Ridge made me a chocolate cupcake and gave it to me. He licked all the frosting off, but it was a sweet gesture.

Birthdays are supposed to be fun, aren’t they? A day you look forward to with anticipation because it’s the one day you matter. You shouldn’t have to do anything you don’t want to or cook or clean. . . nothing.

You shouldn’t have to see people you don’t want to.

Sadly, when I thought of my birthday this year, I didn’t imagine the night like this, sitting on the couch across from Austin.

In fact, I made a wish this morning while blowing out my candle Grady put in my muffin that I wouldn’t see Austin today.

Guess when you’re twenty-seven wishes wished with muffins don’t come true. Who knew?

So there I sit on a Friday night, in the living room, with Austin, the boys in their bedroom.

I thought after signing the final papers last week I’d be done with these talks, but alas, I have to co-parent with this prick for another ten years. Lucky me.

“What do you want? I need to get the boys ready for bed.”

Austin stares at his hands, clasped in front of him as he leans forward on the couch. I wonder if I should tell him I fucked Ridge on that couch last night. I wonder if it’ll be satisfying to hurt him as bad as he’s hurt me over the years.

But I don’t becausethat’s not me.

For a moment, I can’t place the change, but there’s something off about Austin tonight. It’s still him, but different.

“I’m. . . moving to San Francisco,” he finally admits, lifting his eyes to mine, assessing my reaction. “My dad’s opening up a branch there.”

With wide eyes, I twist my head to look at him. I’m shocked, if that’s possible by anything Austin says anymore. I take a deep breath and clasp my hands in my lap, unsure how to respond. His eyes flick to mine, and I’m not sure he does either.

So he tells me he wants a divorce on the boy’s birthday. . . and he tells me he’s moving on my birthday.

Do I jump for joy? I want to, but I can’t because what about the boys?

“And the boys?”

His jaw tightens, his gaze holds steady. He doesn’t say anything right away, just continues to stare, his breaths slightly louder. “I’ll see them every other weekend.”

I’m quiet, for longer than I anticipate because I can’t believe he’d do this to them. It’s not like it’s far away, but still, he’sleavingthem.

I lift my eyes. “I can’t believe you.”

A flash of anger clouds his face. “Not this again,” he groans, standing. “I thought this is what you’d want. Not having me in town to disrupt you and your fucking boyfriend.”

“You don’t even know why I’m saying that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why are you?”

“Because I would never be happy only seeing them every other weekend.”

He shakes his head and looks down the hall. “Where are they? I need to go. Brie’s waiting.”

Of course he throwshername out. I bite the inside of my cheek and fight the urge to turn away, exhaling through my nose. Finding my voice, I ask, “Is she moving with you?”

His head remains down avoiding my gaze, but I can see the frozen mask of uncertainty. He knows where I’m going with this. There’s a pause, and then he speaks slowly. “She is.” And then he hits me with it. “She’s. . . pregnant. I just. . .” He stops, shaking his head. “I don’t know how to tell the boys, but I’m leaving in the morning.”

The bitterness, the betrayal, it surfaces and rears its ugly face, still heavily present in my heart.

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