Chapter 13 - THE HONEYMOON I TOOK WITHOUT A HUSBAND
Portugal was supposed to be romantic.
It became better.
Natalie and I spent nine days eating pastries, getting lost in Lisbon, taking trains without understanding the platforms, and arguing over which one of us had destroyed a rental-car mirror.
Neither of us had.
It folded automatically.
We discovered that after twenty minutes.
I laughed more in nine days than I had during the previous six months of wedding planning.
One evening in Porto, Natalie asked:
“Do you miss him?”
I looked toward the river.
“Yes.”
She seemed surprised.
“You can know someone was wrong for you and still miss them.”
“That sounds annoyingly mature.”
“I’m forty.”
“You’ve been forty for seven months and you’re really leaning into it.”
I threw a napkin at her.
Then she became serious.
“Would you take him back?”
“I don’t know.”
That was still true.
I missed Ethan.
The man who made terrible pancakes.
The man who once drove three hours because my flight was canceled.
The man who remembered that I hated carnations.
I did not miss becoming part of his debt structure.
Both versions were real.
When I returned to Chicago, Ethan had changed apartments.
He sold his condo.
This time openly.
Not to move into mine.
To eliminate debt.
After paying the mortgage, HELOC, selling costs, and remaining obligations, he walked away with $31,800.
He used most of it to pay his personal loan and create a six-month emergency fund.
Then he rented a modest one-bedroom apartment.
“I have no granite waterfall island,” he told me over coffee.
“How are you surviving?”
“Barely.”
“Thoughts and prayers.”
He laughed.
It felt familiar.
But different.
No engagement ring between us.
No deadline.
He had also changed jobs.
Not because of me.
His company relocated his department farther outside the city, and he took an offer closer to home with slightly higher pay.
For the first time, he created a budget without Linda’s expenses inside it.
He showed me only because I asked.
No secret pitch.
No request.
The numbers worked.
That mattered.
Then he told me Linda had listed her townhouse.
“Why?”
“She wants to move to Florida.”
“Of course she does.”
He smiled.
“She says Chicago has become hostile.”
“Did Chicago say that?”
“No. Apparently I did.”
Linda had not forgiven him for selling the Mercedes.
Or for demanding documentation of supposed loans.
Or for refusing to send money.
She accused Claire—me—of turning him against family.
Ethan finally answered:
“Claire didn’t make me stop paying you. The bills did.”
I liked that.
Then he became serious.
“My dad and I are talking.”
Thomas had not demanded instant forgiveness.
He admitted his own failures.
He should have fought harder to stay connected.
He had allowed pride to become silence.
Two flawed parents.
Not one villain and one saint.
Reality usually looks like that.
Then Ethan said:
“I owe you money.”
“No.”
“Wedding losses.”
“We already allocated those.”
“The fake refund email.”
I looked at him.
He had finally learned who created it.
Ryan.
His younger brother.
At Ethan’s request?
“No.”
Linda had asked Ryan to see whether vendor refunds could help cover the Mercedes and Ethan’s HOA shortfall if the wedding plans changed.
Ryan created the lookalike email without telling Ethan.
When Ethan found out, he made Ryan reimburse the $1,200 in administrative costs caused by the dispute.
Then Ethan cut Ryan off from every account.
Another boundary.
Another overdue lesson.
He looked at me.
“I’m sorry my family treated your wedding like a liquidity event.”
That phrase was so absurdly accurate that I laughed.
Then he said:
“And I’m sorry I did too.”
This time I believed the apology.
Believing did not mean resuming the engagement.
We finished coffee.
Outside, the first snow of the season had begun.
Ethan walked me toward my building.
Then stopped half a block away.
“I’m not coming up.”
“I didn’t invite you.”
“I know.”
He smiled.
Progress.
Then:
“Can I ask you one thing?”
“Sure.”
“If we had met now instead of two years ago, would you date me?”
I thought about it.
Then gave him the answer a forensic accountant should give when evidence is incomplete.
“I’d need more data.”
He laughed.
May you like
“Fair.”
And for the first time, the future felt open instead of threatened.
