Chapter 10 Emma
FOUR MONTHS LATER
My lungs burned in the best way.
Mile three. The hardest mile, always. The one where your body wants to quit, where every muscle screams that you've done enough, that you can walk the rest.
I pushed through it.
My feet hit the pavement in a steady rhythm.
Left, right, left, right… like a drumbeat I'd lost somewhere along the way and had finally found again.
The morning air was sharp and clean, early spring fighting its way through the last dregs of winter.
Sunrise was just starting to break over the city, painting everything in shades of pink and gold.
I'd forgotten what this felt like. Not just running, but this… being alone with my thoughts without drowning in them. My mind was clear. Focused. Present.
Well, mostly present. There was still that envelope sitting on my kitchen counter. The one I'd been staring at for ten minutes this morning before I'd forced myself to leave it unopened and go for a run instead.
University of Pennsylvania School of Nursing. I'd know the logo anywhere by now. I'd been checking my mailbox obsessively for three weeks.
But when it finally came yesterday, I'd been too terrified to open it. What if it was a rejection? What if I'd applied too late, or my application wasn't strong enough, or they could somehow see that I'd given up on myself for eight years and decided I wasn't worth the risk?
So I'd left it. Told myself I'd open it this morning. After my run. When I felt strong.
No spiraling about David. No replaying conversations or analyzing what I could have done differently. No wondering if Sarah was prettier or smarter or better in bed.
Just breath. Movement. The burn in my quads and the pump of my heart. And the knowledge that an envelope was waiting for me that could change everything.
I rounded the corner past the coffee shop that was just opening, the owner setting out chairs on the sidewalk.
He waved. I waved back. We'd developed this routine over the past month: me running by at 6:30 AM, him setting up shop, a small acknowledgement between strangers that we were both showing up, doing the work.
Mile four.
I'd started running again two months ago.
Just a mile at first, then two. My body had been so out of shape it was almost embarrassing.
I'd been a runner in college, used to do half marathons like they were nothing, but eight years of marriage and a handful of weeks of barely functioning had taken their toll.
The first week, I'd barely made it around the block without wanting to throw up.
But I kept going. Every other day. Then every day. Building back the strength I'd let atrophy.
And somewhere along the way, I'd stopped running to forget and started running because it felt good. Because I liked the way my body worked, the way it got stronger each week, the way I could see progress in something tangible and measurable.
Mile five.
I turned onto my street—my street, not our street—and let myself sprint the last quarter mile. My heart was hammering, sweat soaking through my shirt, and I felt powerful. Alive. Like my body belonged to me again, like I could do anything.
I slowed to a walk for the cool-down, hands on my hips, breathing hard but steady. A couple walked past with their dog. A guy was getting into his car for work. Normal people doing normal things on a normal Saturday morning.
And I was one of them. Just another person living their life. Not the woman whose husband cheated. Not the divorce. Not broken.
Just Emma. Running. Breathing. Existing.
I looked up at my building. Third floor, corner unit. The window boxes I'd installed last month were starting to bloom: tulips, bright red against the brick.
My building. My window boxes. My tulips.
I headed inside.
The acceptance letter was sitting on my kitchen counter where I'd left it this morning, too afraid to open it before my run in case it was bad news.
I picked up the envelope. University of Pennsylvania School of Nursing. Nurse Practitioner Program.
My hands were still shaking from the run. Or maybe from nerves. Hard to tell.
I'd applied three months ago. Told myself I was just exploring options, just seeing what was out there, no pressure.
But I'd wanted this. Needed it. Not medical school, no…
that dream felt like it belonged to a different person, a younger Emma who didn't know what she wanted yet. But this? This was mine.
I tore open the envelope.
Dear Ms. Peterson,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted...
I read the words three times before they sank in.
Accepted.
I was going back to school. I was advancing my career. I was reclaiming the ambition I'd buried for eight years while I supported someone else's partnership dreams.
My phone was in my hand before I consciously decided to call.
"Emma?" Jess answered on the second ring. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." I was smiling so hard my face hurt. "I got in."
"The NP program?"
"I got in, Jess."
She screamed. Actual screaming. "Oh my god! Emma! When do you start?"
"Fall semester. August."
"We're celebrating. Tonight. I'm texting everyone right now. No excuses."
"Jess—"
"Nope. You're going out. You're drinking champagne. You're letting people be happy for you." She paused. "I'm so fucking proud of you."
My throat tightened. "Thank you. For everything."
"Stop it, you're going to make me cry at work." She sniffled. "Okay, eight PM. That wine bar on Walnut. The one with the good bruschetta. I'll round up the usual suspects. Wear something cute."
She hung up before I could protest.
I looked around my apartment. At the running shoes by the door. The acceptance letter on the counter. The tulips outside my window. The life I was building, piece by piece, without anyone's help or approval or sacrifice.
Four months ago, I'd been crying on a bathroom floor.
Now I was here.
And I was happy.
The wine bar was packed by the time I arrived at 8:15.
I'd changed three times before settling on the black wrap dress, the one Jess had forced me to buy two weeks ago when we'd gone shopping and I'd tried to walk past it.
"You need something that isn't scrubs or yoga pants," she'd insisted.
"Something that makes you feel like a person who exists outside of work. "
She'd been right. The dress hugged my waist, showed off the definition in my arms and legs that two months of running had brought back.
I'd paired it with heeled ankle boots that made me almost six feet tall and a leather jacket I'd found at a consignment shop.
My hair was down, loose waves that I'd actually taken time to style instead of just throwing into a ponytail.
I looked good. I felt good. And for the first time in eight years, I wasn't dressing for anyone but myself.
I spotted Jess immediately. She was at a high-top table near the back, waving both arms like she was guiding in a plane. The table was already full.
"There she is!" Jess pulled me into a hug that nearly knocked me over. "The future Nurse Practitioner!"
Karen from the ICU raised her glass. "Congratulations, Emma. You're going to be fantastic."
"Cheers to that," Amy from respiratory added, clinking her wine glass against Karen's.
Sofia, Sebastian's wife and Jess’s sister, slid a glass of champagne toward me. "I already ordered a bottle. No arguments."
"And bruschetta," Jess said. "And the charcuterie board. And probably too much cheese. We're celebrating."
I laughed and took the champagne. "Thank you. All of you. This is—"
"Long overdue," Karen finished. "You've been through hell. You deserve something good."
I took a sip. The champagne was cold and crisp and perfect.
"So, fall semester," Amy said. "That means you have all summer to relax before the chaos starts."
"Or to stress about it," I said.
"No stressing allowed tonight," Jess declared. She gestured to a guy standing at the bar. "Besides, someone's been asking about you."
I followed her gaze. Tall, dark hair, nice smile. He was talking to Sebastian but kept glancing over at our table.
"That's Connor," Sofia said. "Sebastian's coworker. Engineer. Very sweet. Very single."
"Sofia," I warned.
"What? I'm just stating facts." She grinned. "He asked Sebastian about you when you came in."
"He did not."
"He absolutely did," Sebastian confirmed, appearing at the table with another round of drinks. "Asked if you were seeing anyone. I told him you'd just gotten into grad school and were probably not interested in distractions, but he could try his luck."
"Sebastian!" Sofia swatted his arm.
"What? I'm being honest." He shrugged. "Also, he's a good guy. You could do worse."
I felt my face heating up. "I'm not… I'm not looking for anything right now."
"You don't have to be looking," Jess said. "You can just be... open to possibilities."
Before I could respond, Connor appeared at our table, holding two glasses of wine. "Hey. Sebastian said you guys might need refills?" He set the glasses down, then looked at me. "Congratulations, by the way. On grad school. That's really impressive."
"Thank you," I said.
"Connor, this is Emma," Sebastian said. "Emma, Connor."
"Nice to meet you." Connor's smile was warm, genuine. Not pushy. Just... friendly. "So, nurse practitioner. That's a big deal."
"It is," I said. "Two years of hell, but worth it."
"What made you decide to go back to school?"
And just like that, we were talking. About the program, about my job, about his work as an engineer. He was easy to talk to, asked good questions, laughed at my jokes. He wasn't trying too hard. Wasn't making it weird.
It was... nice.
Jess caught my eye from across the table and gave me a subtle thumbs up. I rolled my eyes but couldn't help smiling.
An hour passed. Then another. The conversation flowed, the wine kept coming, and I felt myself relaxing in a way I hadn't in months. This was what I'd been missing: being around people, laughing, feeling like a normal person instead of someone constantly in recovery mode.
Connor excused himself to take a call, and I headed to the bar to order another round.
The bartender was slammed, so I waited, leaning against the polished wood, people-watching. The bar had filled up even more—groups of friends, couples on dates, people unwinding after a long week. Everyone had their own story, their own life happening in real time.
I was just another person in the crowd. Not special. Not tragic. Just... here.
Movement caught my eye. A woman at a table near the window, laughing at something one of her companions said. Dark hair pulled back. Sharp cheekbones. That polished, professional look that seemed effortless.
Something about her face was familiar.
My stomach tightened before my brain could catch up.
I knew that face. I'd stared at it in photos for hours. Burned it into my memory during the worst night of my life.
It was her.
Sarah.
She was at a table with two other women, all of them in business casual. They’d probably just left the office. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and she looked exactly like I remembered. Polished. Put together.
Tired, though. There were circles under her eyes that even makeup couldn't quite hide.
She reached for her wine glass, said something that made the other women laugh, and for a moment she looked almost... normal. Just another professional having drinks with colleagues on a Friday night.
The woman my husband had thrown everything away for.
The woman who'd sent him photos in lingerie.
The woman who'd walked away from him the second it got complicated.
My heart was pounding, but not the way it would have four months ago. Not with rage or devastation or that sick, twisting jealousy that had consumed me.
This was just... adrenaline. The shock of unexpected recognition.
She turned her head, scanning the room, and our eyes met.
I watched the realization hit her face. The recognition. Then something else… Discomfort? Guilt, maybe. Or fear.
She looked away immediately. Back to her friends, like she'd seen nothing. Like I was just another stranger at the bar.
But her shoulders had tensed. Her smile looked forced now, too bright. She was pretending I wasn't there, but she knew. She knew exactly who I was.
And she was afraid of me.
The thought settled over me like a strange sort of calm.
Sarah Oakley—polished, successful, daughter of a managing partner—was afraid of me. The woman whose life she'd helped destroy. The woman who had every right to walk over there and make a scene.
But I didn't want to make a scene.
I didn't want to say a single word to her.
She wasn't worth it. Wasn't worth interrupting my celebration, wasn't worth the energy it would take to be angry. She was just... someone who'd made shitty choices. Someone who'd hurt people and faced her own consequences, whatever they’d been.
Someone I didn't need to think about anymore.
The bartender appeared. "What can I get you?"
"A bottle of champagne," I said. "Whatever you recommend."
He nodded and turned away.
I didn't look back at Sarah's table. Didn't need to. I picked up the champagne when it arrived and walked back to my friends.
Connor had returned and was laughing at something Sebastian said. Jess saw me approaching and raised her empty glass. "Did you get lost?"
"Nope." I set down the champagne. "Just making sure we had enough to celebrate properly."
"That's my girl." Jess popped the cork, and everyone cheered.
I glanced back at the window one more time. Sarah was still there, still talking to her friends, but her posture was stiff. Uncomfortable.
Good.
I turned back to my table, to my friends, to Connor asking me a question about the NP program, to Jess pouring champagne, to this life I was building.
And I realized something.
I didn't just feel nothing about Sarah.
I felt free.