Page 68 of After Everything
I hung up and pulled on the sweater. Jeans, sweater, minimal makeup. Casual. Like I wasn't putting thought into this, even though I'd been awake since six AM trying on different combinations.
My reflection looked calm. Composed. Like someone who had her shit together and wasn't nervous about having coffee with her ex-husband.
I looked away before my face could betray the lie.
The coffee shop was on 5th Street, a ten-minute walk from my apartment. I'dsuggested it specifically because it was public, neutral territory, close enough that I could walk home if I needed to leave quickly.
Control. This was about control.
I grabbed my jacket and keys, paused at the door.
I could still cancel. Pull out my phone, send a quick text.Sorry, can't make it. Something came up.
He'd accept it. Probably expected it, even.
But I'd been running from this conversation for three years. Maybe it was time to stop.
I locked the door behind me and started walking.
The morning was cool, early October settling into that perfect fall weather where you needed a jacket but the sun was warm on your face. The streets were quiet: too early for brunch crowds, too late for morning runners.
My mind wouldn't settle.
What was I going to say? What did I want from this conversation? An apology? I'd already gotten that, sort of, in the stiffformal language of divorce proceedings. Closure? Maybe. Understanding? Of what? Why he'd done it? Did the reason even matter anymore?
Maybe I just needed to hear him say it. To look him in the eye and have him acknowledge, without lawyer-speak or clinical distance, what he'd done. What it had cost.
Or maybe I just needed to prove to myself that I could sit across from him and feel nothing.
The coffee shop came into view. Small, local place, big windows facing the street. I could see people inside: Saturday morning crowd, couples reading newspapers, someone working on a laptop.
And there, at a table near the back.
David.
I stopped on the sidewalk.
He was facing the door, like he'd positioned himself to see me coming. He had a coffee in front of him already, and he was fidgeting with the cup, turning it in small circles. His hair was slightly damp, like he'dshowered recently. He was wearing a gray henley and jeans, and he looked...
Nervous.
Actually nervous. Not the confident lawyer who'd cross-examined witnesses, not the ambitious associate who'd charmed clients. Just a man waiting to see if the woman he'd destroyed would walk through the door.
I could still leave. Turn around, text him from home, say I couldn't do this.
But I'd already come this far.
And despite everything, despite the fear and the anger and the three years of rebuilding myself from scratch, I wanted to hear what he had to say.
I took a breath, pulled open the door, and walked inside.
David saw me immediately. He stood up—too fast, almost knocking over his coffee—then seemed to realize what he was doing and sat back down. His hands went to the table, then his lap, then back to the table.
He was terrified.
The thought surprised me. I'd expected confidence, lawyer composure, the smoothcharm that had gotten him through law school and partnership interviews and client meetings. Not this. Not a man who looked like he might throw up.
I walked to the table. Stood there for a second.
