Page 163 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
My divorce was finalized today—the judge signing off on the agreement—so it’s no surprise Courtney isn’t happy.
She’s shown up a half-dozen times over the last month—despite Luna having been activated to work her magic.
I never thought I’d find someone to match Luna’s tenacity.
But Courtney is proving to be just as stubborn.
I just…well, it’s not that I don’t care. I still feel a sliver of guilt as I walk across my new rug in the entryway, pull open the front door Faye and I repainted a deep brown after I returned from the second leg of the team’s road trip last month.
It’s just…the doorbell no longer has me fighting the urge to run.
To fix.
To hide.
No shame. No pretending I was completely innocent. And no taking it all on my shoulders.
Faye’s doing.
And mine.
And therapy.
Working through acknowledging and being a grownup and trying to build healthy habits.
I hate it—feeling raw and vulnerable and still not completely free of the past and its guilt, of my memories and all my regrets…
But it’s also like I’m finally taking full breaths again.
Progress, not perfection.
And lots of banana bread.
Plus it helps that the headlines have become more like?—
From Scandal to Sweethearts: Grizzlies Captain and Local Author Prove True Love’s No Fiction
Grizzlies’ Captain Credits ‘The Woman Who Made Me Brave’ for Midseason Comeback
The Love Story That Changed the Conversation: How One Romance Novel Sparked a Genre Reckoning
And best of all…
#BananaBreadGoals Trends Again After Faye Sullivan’s Cookbook Reveal
“We have bananas, right?” I ask as I see Courtney glaring at us through the side pane of the front door.
“Always,” Faye says.
“Up for some baking after this shit is done?”
It’s nearly midnight and Faye has spent the last few weeks been dealing with her own heavy pile of the past—permits and insurance, managing the rebuilding, her own therapy appointments, dealing with her publisher and own requests for interviews, and working on her revisions, their deadline rapidly approaching now that her book is back on the publication schedule.
She’s exhausted—I know she has to be.
But she just takes my hand, lifts on tiptoe, and presses her lips to my jaw. “Of course.” Her mouth curves. “We have to try out Nana’s recipe.”
“I love you,” I murmur.
