Chapter 25 Emma
Imade it home in a daze.
Walked through my apartment door, dropped my keys on the counter, stood in the middle of my living room for a full minute just staring at nothing.
Then I changed into running clothes.
I'd already done five miles this morning, part of my normal Saturday routine. But I pulled on my shorts and laced up my shoes anyway, hands moving on autopilot. My legs were going to hate me for this.
I was out the door before I could think too hard about why.
The park trail was three blocks from my apartment. I started at a jog, then pushed into a run. Then a sprint.
My lungs burned My legs were protesting, my calves tight, but I pushed harder anyway.
I needed to outrun something. I just wasn't sure what.
The park trail was busy with weekend traffic. I wove around everyone, not stopping, not slowing. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Once. Twice. Three times. I ignored it.
I don't hate him.
The thought came unbidden, matching the rhythm of my footfalls against the pavement.
I don't hate him, I don't hate him, I don't hate him.
I'd said it out loud in that coffee shop. Admitted it. And David's face had done something—softened, maybe, or broken a little more. Like he'd been waiting three years to hear it and now that he had, he didn't know what to do with it either.
My pace faltered. I nearly tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, caught myself, kept going.
The problem wasn't that I'd told him I didn't hate him. The problem was everything that came after.
I can see you've changed. I believe you're sorry. I even believe you're doing the work to become someone better.
All true. All things I'd meant when I said them.
But that doesn't erase what you did. It doesn't give me back what I lost. And it doesn't mean I'm willing to risk getting hurt by you again.
Also true. Also meant.
So why did my chest feel like someone had reached in and squeezed?
I pushed harder, my breath coming in short gasps now. The park trail opened up ahead, a long straight stretch with no one in sight. I let myself go, legs pumping, arms driving, everything in me focused on the singular act of moving forward.
Don't think. Just run.
But my brain wouldn't cooperate.
You're not the same person you were.
His voice. The way he'd said it. Like he was seeing me for the first time in years. Like he was proud of me.
Fuck.
I slowed to a walk, hands on my hips, gasping for air. My heart was racing… from the run, obviously. Just from the run.
A woman with a golden retriever gave me a concerned look as she passed. I probably looked deranged. Hair plastered to my forehead with sweat, face flushed, bent over like I'd just finished a marathon.
I'd only gone two miles. On top of the five from this morning.
Seven miles before noon on a Saturday. Because I'd had coffee with my ex-husband and now apparently I was training for the Olympics.
My phone buzzed again. I pulled it out, still breathing hard.
Three texts from Jess.
How'd it go?
Emma. EMMA.
If you don't answer me in the next 10 minutes I'm coming over.
I checked the timestamp on the last one. Twelve minutes ago.
Shit.
I typed back:
I'm fine. At the park. Running.
The response was immediate:
You already ran this morning.
I stared at the screen. Then typed:
I know.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
I'm coming over. Don't argue.
I didn't have the energy to argue.
I walked the rest of the way home slowly, legs shaking now that the adrenaline was wearing off. The October air felt good against my overheated skin, but I still felt like I was burning from the inside out.
I'd just told my ex-husband I didn't hate him anymore.
And somehow that felt more terrifying than when I'd hated him.
By the time I got back to my building, Jess was already there, leaning against the wall next to my door with two coffees in her hands.
"You look like hell," she said.
"Thanks."
"I brought caffeine." She handed me one of the cups. "And I'm not leaving until you tell me everything."
I unlocked the door and let us both in. My apartment was exactly as I'd left it: keys on the counter, jacket thrown over the back of the couch. Evidence of my hasty exit.
Jess took in the scene with one sweep of her eyes. "That bad, huh?"
"I don't know." I collapsed onto the couch, still in my sweaty running clothes. "Maybe. I don't know."
She sat down next to me, coffee in hand, waiting.
And suddenly, I couldn't hold it in anymore.
"He apologized," I said. "Like, really apologized. Not the lawyer-speak version. Not the 'I'm sorry you're upset' bullshit. He took responsibility for everything. Every single thing."
Jess was quiet, letting me talk.
"He said he understood what he did. What it cost me. That he's been in therapy for three years." I took a sip of coffee, barely tasting it. "And Jess, I could see it. The change. He's not the same person."
"Okay," she said carefully. "And how do you feel about that?"
"I don't know." My voice cracked slightly. "I told him I didn't hate him anymore. And I meant it. But I also told him that doesn't mean I forgive him or trust him or want him back in my life."
"Did you mean that too?"
I opened my mouth to say yes. Of course I meant it. I'd built this entire life without him. I was happy. I didn't need him.
But the words stuck in my throat.
"I don't know," I whispered instead.
Jess set down her coffee. "Emma—"
"Don't." I held up a hand. "Don't do the concerned best friend thing. I can't handle it right now."
"Too bad." She shifted to face me fully. "Because I'm doing it anyway. What specifically don't you know?"
I stared at my coffee cup. "I don't know if I meant it when I said I didn't want him back in my life."
The words hung in the air between us.
"Okay," Jess said slowly. "That's, huh, honest."
"I should mean it." I looked up at her. "Right? After everything he did? I should want nothing to do with him. I should be fine with keeping things professional and distant and safe."
"Should," Jess repeated. "That's a dangerous word."
"But I built this whole life without him. I'm happy. I have my career, my apartment, my friends. I don't need him." I was talking faster now, like I could convince myself if I just said it enough times. "Three years, Jess. It's been three years. I should be over this."
"Emma." She reached over and took my hand. "Feelings don't work on a timeline."
"They should," I said stubbornly.
"But they don't." She squeezed my hand. "So let me ask you something, and I want you to actually think about the answer instead of just saying what you think you're supposed to say."
I nodded, even though I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the question.
"When you were sitting across from him today," Jess said carefully, "what were you feeling? Not what you told him. Not what you think you should have felt. What did you actually feel?"
I closed my eyes. Remembered the coffee shop. David across the table, looking tired and sincere and nothing like the man who'd destroyed my life three years ago.
"I felt..." I paused, searching for the right words. "Sad. For what we lost. For what we could have been if he hadn't..." I trailed off.
"What else?"
"Angry. Not the burning rage I used to feel. Just this low-level frustration that he gets to apologize and do the work and become someone better, and I'm the one who has to decide what to do with that."
"What else?"
I opened my eyes. "What do you want me to say, Jess?"
"I want you to tell me the truth." Her voice was gentle but firm. "Even if it scares you."
I took a shaky breath. "I felt... something.
When he looked at me. When he said he understood what he'd destroyed.
When he told me he was proud of me for building my life without him.
" I put my coffee down because my hands were starting to shake.
"And I hate that I felt something. I hate that after three years of being fine, of being over him, one stupid conversation can make me feel. .. this."
"Feel what?"
"I don't know!" The frustration in my voice surprised even me. "That's the problem. I don't know what I'm feeling. I don't know if it's just old habit, or if it's actual feelings, or if I'm just confused because he's not the villain anymore and my brain doesn't know how to process that."
Jess was quiet for a moment. "You know what I think?"
"I'm not sure I want to."
"Too bad. I think you're terrified."
I looked at her. "Of what?"
"Of wanting him back." She said it simply, like it was obvious.
"Of realizing that you might be able to forgive him.
That you might want to try again. Because that would mean risking everything you've rebuilt.
And after what you went through, the idea of being vulnerable again…
with him, specifically… well, that is fucking terrifying. "
My throat tightened. "I'm not—"
"Emma." She cut me off. "I watched you fall apart. I know what he did to you. I know what it cost you to rebuild." She paused. "But I also see your face right now. And you're not angry that you saw him. You're scared of what it means that you're not angry anymore."
I wanted to argue. To tell her she was wrong, that I was fine, that I didn't want David back.
But the words wouldn't come.
Because she wasn't wrong.
"I don't know if I can do it again," I said quietly. "Be with him. Trust him. Risk it."
"Then don't," Jess said simply. "You don't have to decide anything right now. You don't have to forgive him or trust him or give him another chance. You don't owe him anything."
"But?"
"But." She smiled slightly. "You also don't have to decide right now that you never will. You're allowed to not know. You're allowed to be confused. You're allowed to feel something and not know what to do with it."
I slumped back against the couch. "That's deeply unsatisfying advice."
"I know." She picked up her coffee again. "But it's honest. You don't have to have all the answers today."
We sat in silence for a moment.
"He's been referring DV cases to the clinic for nine months," I said suddenly.
Jess raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"And I knew that. Obviously. I've seen the referrals, worked with his clients.
But I never..." I gestured vaguely. "I never let myself think about what that meant.
That he was choosing to do that kind of work.
Pro bono cases. Helping women who've been betrayed, who need to escape.
Women whose partners destroyed their trust."
"What does it mean?"
"I don't know. Maybe nothing. Maybe he's just trying to make himself feel better." I picked at a thread on my running shorts. "Or maybe he really has changed. Maybe he really does understand now what he did."
"And if he has changed?" Jess asked. "What then?"
"Then I don't know what to do with that information."
"Fair enough." She stood up. "Okay, here's what you're going to do today. You're going to take a shower, because you're disgusting. Then you're going to eat actual food. Then you're going to do something, anything, that has nothing to do with David or feelings or any of this."
"Jess—"
"I'm serious. Give your brain a break. Watch trashy TV.
Read a book. Organize your closet. Whatever.
But stop trying to solve this right now.
" She headed for the door, then paused. "And Emma?
For what it's worth? There's no wrong answer here.
Whatever you decide, whether it's giving him another chance or walking away for good, it's your choice. Your timeline. Your life."
After she left, I sat on the couch for a long time, still in my sweaty running clothes, staring at nothing.
My phone was on the coffee table. I picked it up. Opened my contacts. Scrolled to his name.
David Harrison.
I'd deleted his number three years ago. Blocked him on everything. But his contact had come back when we'd started working together on cases. Professional necessity, nothing more.
I stared at his name for a long moment.
Then I closed the app and set the phone face-down on the table.
Not today.
But not never either.
And that was the most terrifying realization of all.