Chapter 13 - THE FIRST DATE AFTER THE DIVORCE
Our first date was terrible.
That made it perfect.
The restaurant lost our reservation.
It rained.
A waiter spilled sparkling water on my pants.
Emma laughed so hard she snorted.
I had forgotten she did that.
For two hours, we did not talk about my father.
Or Andrew.
Or Rachel.
Or Christmas Eve.
We talked about movies.
Noah.
Hope.
Emma’s plan to return to nonprofit work.
My complete inability to cook rice.
Then dessert arrived.
She became quiet.
“Why did you say yes?”
“To dinner?”
“Yes.”
“I would have crawled here.”
“Wrong answer.”
I smiled.
“Because you asked.”
Better.
She nodded.
“I needed to know you could accept the divorce without treating it like a temporary obstacle.”
“I hated it.”
“I know.”
“But it was real.”
“Yes.”
“So I had to respect it.”
Emma studied me.
“Therapy is annoying, isn’t it?”
“Deeply.”
She laughed.
I had been seeing a therapist for nine months.
Individually.
Not because I wanted proof for Emma.
She did not know at first.
I went because I finally understood that my ability to provide money, solutions, and confidence had hidden something simpler:
I was terrified of other people’s pain.
When Emma hurt, I reassured.
When Rachel hurt, I rescued.
When I hurt, I worked.
I had never learned to sit inside pain without trying to silence it.
That night, walking Emma to her car, I asked:
“Can I kiss you?”
She looked surprised.
We had been married.
Had a child.
Still, I asked.
“No.”
“Okay.”
I stepped back.
She smiled slightly.
“You passed.”
“That was a test?”
“Everything is a test now.”
“Terrifying.”
“Good.”
Second date:
Yes to holding hands.
Fourth:
Yes to a kiss.
Eighth:
We argued.
A real argument.
Emma accused me of answering work emails during dinner.
Old me would have said:
It’s important.
New me turned off the phone.
Not because she ordered me.
Because she was right.
One year after Christmas Eve, we spent Christmas morning together.
Not remarried.
Not living together.
Just Emma, Hope, Noah, the Millers, Mara, Catherine, and me in Emma’s apartment.
Complicated.
Crowded.
Real.
Noah gave Hope a telescope-shaped rattle.
Hope tried to eat it.
Emma laughed.
I watched her.
Then noticed she was watching me.
That night, after everyone left, she handed me a small gift.
Inside:
A framed copy of the note she left on Christmas Eve.
I stared.
“I hope someday you understand why I had to leave before you could ask me to stay.”
My chest tightened.
“Why frame this?”
“Because you finally understand it.”
I looked at her.
“I think I do.”
“Tell me.”
“You left before my apology could become another reason to abandon yourself.”
Her eyes filled.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“You needed to know whether I would change when losing you didn’t come with a guaranteed reward.”
“Yes.”
“Did I?”
She smiled.
“Yes.”
Then she kissed me.
And whispered:
“That doesn’t mean I’m marrying you again.”
I laughed.
“I wasn’t going to ask.”
“Good.”
I was absolutely going to ask.
May you like
Eventually.
Much later.
