Page 61 of The Space He Left
After the call ended, I sat in the quiet kitchen, her words echoing in my mind.An opportunity to meet yourself again.The idea didn't feel like a betrayal at all. It felt like a necessity. And for the first time, the thought of having dinner with Doug didn't fill me with guilt. It filled me with a tentative, unfamiliar flicker of hope.
That evening, I called Doug and accepted his dinner invitation.
Our first “not a date” was to a quiet restaurant one town over – far enough from Willowbrook that we wouldn't become immediate gossip, close enough that I didn't feel like I was running away. Doug was a perfect gentleman, holding doors, asking thoughtful questions, and listening to my answers with genuine interest.
"This must be strange for you," he said over dessert. "After... everything."
"It is," I admitted. "I keep waiting for it to feel wrong, but it doesn't. Is that terrible?"
"That you're enjoying yourself? No, Harper, that's healthy. You're allowed to have a life outside of your complicated marriage situation."
"But I'm still married."
"Legally, yes. But emotionally?"
It was a fair question. "I don't know," I said honestly.
"That's okay. You don't have to know everything right now."
We had three more “not a date” dinners over the next month. Doug was consistently kind, interesting, and respectful of my boundaries. He became a friend. He didn't push for physical intimacy, didn't pressure me for answers about my future, and never tried to compete with or replace Jack. He just listened.
But with each dinner, with each easy, platonic conversation, I became more aware of what was missing.
Doug was wonderful, but he wasn't Jack. His laugh was pleasant, but it didn't make my heart skip. When he'd occasionally touch my arm to make a point, it was warm and friendly, but it didn't make me feel like I was home. His stories about his day were interesting, but they didn't make me want to share my own in the same way I had with Jack.
On our fourth dinner, as we walked along the lake, Doug stopped and turned to me. "You're still in love with him, aren't you?"
The question was gentle, without accusation or hurt. Just an honest observation from a man who'd clearly been paying attention.
"I..." I started to deny it, then stopped. Doug deserved honesty. "Yes. I am."
"Even after everything he did?"
"Even after everything he did. Which makes me either very stupid or very hopeful."
Doug smiled. "It makes you human. Love doesn't just disappear because someone hurts you."
We sat on a bench overlooking the water, and I found myself talking about Jack in a way I hadn't been able to with anyone else... About the man I'd fallen in love with, the husband he'd been, the father I saw him becoming with Emma.
"So why are you here with me instead of working things out with him?" Doug asked, the question feeling less like it came from a jealous suitor and more like it came from a concerned friend trying to understand.
"I don't know if I can trust him not to run off to rescue the next person who needs saving," I said. "And I'm terrified of being that vulnerable again."
"Those are valid reasons to be cautious."
"But?"
"But from one friend to another," he said, his voice kind, "it sounds like you're more scared of what will happen if you do trust him again than what will happen if you don't."
On the drive home, I thought about Doug's words. Did I believe Jack had changed? From what I could observe during our brief, polite interactions, he seemed different. More focused, more present, less prone to the restless energy that had alwaysmade him seem like he was looking for the next problem to solve.
But brief, carefully managed handoffs and conversations through a co-parenting app weren't enough to judge real change. And even if Jack had truly changed, that didn't automatically repair the damage he'd done to our marriage.
When I got home, Mom was waiting up for me, as she always did on the nights I went out with Doug.
"How was dinner?" she asked.
"Good."
