Page 32 of After Everything
That's good. Walking is good. Call me tomorrow?
Yeah. Love you.
Love you too.
I put my phone away and kept walking.
I'd heard through the grapevine—my dad, who'd heard from Emma's dad—that she'd gotten into a nurse practitioner program. Starting in the fall. Two years of school while working full-time.
I'd wanted to text her. Congratulations. I'm proud of you. You deserve this.
But I hadn't. Dr. Reeves had been clear: "Leave her alone. Lether move on. If you actually care about her wellbeing, you'll respect her boundaries."
So I did. I didn't text. Didn't call. Didn't show up anywhere I thought she might be.
It was the hardest thing I'd ever done.
I turned a corner and found myself on Walnut Street. Restaurants and bars, still busy despite the late hour. People spilling out onto sidewalks, laughing, living.
I should go home. There was nothing for me here.
But I kept walking.
And that’s when I saw her, through the window of a restaurant. One of those trendy Italian places with Edison bulbs and exposed brick. The kind of place Emma and I used to talk about trying but never got around to because I was always working.
She was at a table near the window, and she was laughing.
Not the polite laugh she used to give my work colleagues at firm events. Not the tired laugh she'd had toward the end, when everything was strained and breaking. Real laughter. The kind that made her throw herhead back slightly, her whole face lighting up.
She looked beautiful.
Her hair was different. Shorter, maybe? Or just styled differently. She was wearing a blue sweater I didn't recognize. And she looked... healthy. Vibrant. Like someone who slept through the night and went for runs and ate meals that weren't takeout.
Like someone who was happy.
There was a man sitting across from her. Tall, dark hair, nice smile. He said something and she laughed again, reaching across the table to swat his arm playfully.
The man, whoever he was, leaned forward, saying something else. Emma smiled, that soft smile she used to give me when we were first dating. When everything was easy and uncomplicated and good.
My chest felt like someone had reached in and squeezed.
I should leave. Should turn around and walk away. This wasn't my business anymore. She'd moved on. She was allowed to move on.
But I couldn't move.
I just stood there on the sidewalk, watching through the glass like some pathetic ghost haunting a life that wasn't mine anymore.
The waiter brought their food. Emma said something, and the man laughed. She took a bite, made a face like it was good, offered him a taste from her fork. He leaned forward and took it, and they both smiled.
It was such a small thing. Sharing food. The kind of intimate, casual gesture that couples do without thinking.
The kind of thing Emma and I used to do.
My phone was in my hand before I realized what I was doing. Her name was right there in my contacts, still not deleted, even though every call went to voicemail and every text went unread.
I could text her right now.I see you. You look happy. I'm glad.
Or:Can we talk? Please?
