Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
ALLEY
My hands shake as I reach for the overpriced glass water bottle. I take a sip, my throat parched, pulse unsteady. My palm slides against the condensation, slick and cold. The large, oval table sits in a modern Midtown office on the thirteenth floor.
The chair is fine. Not comfortable, but not awful either.
God. Why am I thinking about chairs?
Because if I don’t, I might throw up.
It’s been three weeks since Christmas. Two since my lawyer called to say Jensen rejected the divorce terms. I had a choice—drag it out with a fight, or agree to mediation.
He countered by asking for only twenty-five percent.
It’s generous. Too generous. But that’s Jensen—thoughtful, intentional. He knows exactly what to say and how to show up. And somehow, it doesn’t feel manipulative. Because I also know that if I’d signed, he would’ve followed through without question.
I know what most people would say—that he’s trying to do the right thing. Maybe even trying to make up for what happened.
I’m sure that’s part of it, but he wants to see me. He knew I wouldn’t sign, and that this was the only way I’d sit in front of him.
So here I am.
I told myself I wouldn’t cave. That I’d stay strong. I’ve ignored every text and call since Christmas Eve.
I know it’s harsh. Bitchy, even. But I don’t trust myself.
After that call from him, it was all I could do not to get on a plane and come running back.
So I ignore him. Pretend he doesn’t send me coffee, or lunch, or flowers.
That I don’t read every thoughtful text, or see the pictures he sends from our past. That they don’t wreck me.
That it doesn’t feel like the kind of hurt that’s almost beautiful—because he can’t not remember. Just like me.
I just keep praying it stops.
But it doesn’t.
And right now? I’m scared.
It’s been almost five months since I last saw him, and I’ve spent every one of them trying to unlove him.
To untangle myself from the want. To not look at the photos of him on Matt’s Instagram, or the video of him doing a polar plunge in Switzerland—where he strips down to his underwear and dives into a freezing lake.
How I zoom in on the new abs he’s sporting.
As if memorizing him might quiet the ache that never seems to leave.
God, I’ve tried everything. Breathwork. Long walks. Hot yoga with Cooper. Midnight venting with Leo. Girl talk with Vivian.
Little by little, I’ve been getting better. It’s been getting easier. But now I’m sitting here, palms sweaty, stomach in knots, terrified that one look at him will unravel all of it.
I don’t want that.
I glance at the clock above the door. He’s late. The meeting was supposed to start three minutes ago.
The mediator sits quietly as our lawyers chat like they’re old buddies, papers out in front of them.
His lawyer’s familiar. I think he’s one of Jensen’s dad’s friends—maybe he was at our wedding. I’m not sure; doesn’t matter. What I do know is he’ll be the best damn lawyer there is. Between Jensen’s dad being a lawyer and all the high-powered people Matt knows, I’d expect nothing less.
My lawyer’s good too. He’s younger, one of Scarlett’s friends. But he had a great resume and was reasonably affordable. As affordable as a lawyer can be in New York.
I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how dry it is, and reach for the water again. My eyes flick to the door when I hear voices, my pulse picking up speed, body going tense. I fix my gaze on the condensation sliding down the glass bottle in front of me as the door opens.
I don’t look up. I can’t. A shaky breath fills my lungs, my eyes betraying me as they drift to the movement across from me.
To Jensen.
Holy shit. He looks good. Fitted navy chinos, a camel-colored belt, crisp white button-up—and goddamn confidence he wears better than cologne.
He flashes me a grin as he slides into his seat. “Hi, Al.” His dimples set deep, eyes locked on mine. They’re clear, bright, familiar—that deep ocean blue making it hard to look away. Making it hard to breathe.
My throat somehow gets even drier. I can hardly swallow. It’s like a desert in my mouth.
I am so screwed. Or, in Jensen’s words—I’m fucked.
His arms flex as he pulls himself up to the table, folding them in front of him, eyes still on me.
Oh my God. I knew he’d gotten in better shape—the polar plunge video—but I didn’t realize he’d gotten so much buffer.
Is buffer even a word?
I swallow, or attempt to. My heart’s fluttering so hard it feels like there’s a bird trapped in my chest.
“Hi,” I breathe out, eyes locked on his biceps, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut. Yep. Definitely buffer.
“It’s good to see you.” His voice is low, smooth, genuine. “You look beautiful.”
And you look hot as hell.
I reach for my water… again, my hand shaky, the glass cool against my palm. “Thank you,” I say, forcing my eyes away from him and to the mediator.
Cool. I can’t even act normal around my own husband.
Both lawyers greet Jensen, and he stands to shake each of their hands.
My attention derails the second I notice ink on one of his forearms.
What the hell? He got a tattoo?
His sleeves are rolled a few inches, and sure enough—definitely a tattoo.
My mind spins. What is it? How big? Are there more? What else is he hiding under that shirt, aside from the six pack?
I use this minute of polite pleasantries to study him, letting my eyes roam. Taking him in like it’s the first time. Like he did when we met, coming out of anesthesia, unable to keep his eyes off me.
My gaze lands on his face. Sharp jawline. Clear skin. Scruff. His hair’s longer now, messier.
My eyes drop to his mouth.
Dammit. Don’t look at his mouth. Don’t look at his mouth.
What is wrong with me? Is this what five months without sex does to a person? Or is this just… me missing him?
I’ve been so worried about seeing him. Bracing myself for this day. Replaying every possible scenario. Reminding myself why I left, why I have to follow through.
It was going to be hard enough, sitting across from the man I love to sign divorce papers.
But this? Tattoos. Muscles. That mouth.
Clean.
Clear eyes. Steady voice. That Jensen confidence I haven’t seen in so long—the same confidence that stole my heart five years ago.
Jensen 2.0 showed up. And I’m supposed to stay strong? Pretend like this is what I want—to be divorced? To sign the papers while he’s looking at me like I’m the only person in the room. Like I’m still his.
Like he loves me.
Shit.