Chapter 13 David
Istood on the sidewalk for a full minute after she walked away.
Just stood there, laptop bag over my shoulder, watching her disappear around the corner. The canvas bag with the flowers sticking out. The confident stride. The way she didn't look back.
Not once.
My coffee had gone cold in my hand. I dumped it in the trash can next to the bench and sat down.
Emma.
Three years. Three years of therapy and rebuilding and trying to become someone I could stand to look at in the mirror. Three years of wondering if I'd ever see her again, playing out scenarios in my head about what I'd say, how I'd apologize, whether she'd even give me the chance.
And when it finally happened, I'd frozen. Stumbled through three minutes of awkward small talk like an idiot. Watched her check her phone and excuse herself because she had somewhere better to be.
Which, of course, she did. She had an entire life. One that didn't include me.
I pulled out my phone and stared at it. Dr. Reeves had told me a thousand times: "Leave her alone. Let her move on. If you actually care about her, you'll respect that."
I'd been good. For three years, I'd been so fucking good. No texts. No calls. No showing up places. I'd deleted her number from my phone after the first year because the temptation was too much. I'd avoided her street, her favorite restaurants, anywhere I thought she might be.
And now I'd seen her, and she was... fine. Better than fine. She was thriving. Nurse practitioner. Women's health. She'd finished the program, built the career she deserved, become the person she was always supposed to be.
And all that without me.
A couple walked past, holding hands, laughing about something. The woman looked at her partner like he'd hung the moon. I remembered when Emma used to look at me like that. Back in college, before I'd slowly, systematically destroyed everything good between us.
My phone was still in my hand. I pulled up my calendar by instinct.
I had a client meeting in an hour; a divorce case, ironically.
Woman leaving her husband after twenty years because he'd been "emotionally checked out" for the last five.
She'd cried in my office last week, asking if she was making a mistake, if she should try harder.
I'd told her what Dr. Reeves had told me: "You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved. And you can't stay in a marriage where only one person is trying."
The client had nodded, signed the retainer agreement, and scheduled the meeting for today to go over the filing.
I was good at this now. Helping people leave bad situations. Helping them rebuild. Helping them see that starting over wasn't the end of the world… it was just the beginning of a different one.
It was penance, maybe. Or just the only kind of law I could stomach anymore.
I stood up and started walking toward my office. It was a small space above a coffee shop three blocks away; nothing like the corner office I'd had at Olson, Chen & Lowe. But it was mine. Paid for by clients who actually needed help, not corporations trying to avoid liability.
My phone buzzed with a text from Marcus, one of the few friends I’d found after everything imploded.
Drinks tonight? I’m closing early.
Marcus owned a bar downtown. We'd met through a mutual client two years ago and had somehow become friends despite the fact that I was a walking disaster at the time.
I texted back:
Can't. Client meeting until late. Rain check?
No problem. Let me know when you're free.
I pocketed my phone and kept walking. The city was busy: people rushing home from work, tourists taking photos, life happening all around me. I used to hate this neighborhood. Too loud, too crowded, too far from the gleaming high-rises where "real" lawyers worked.
Now I liked it. It felt honest. Real. Like the kind of place where people actually lived instead of just performed.
My office was on the second floor, accessible by a narrow staircase that probably violated about six building codes. The door still had the previous tenant's name on it, some accountant who'd retired to Florida. I kept meaning to change it but never got around to it.
Inside, the space was small but functional. A desk I'd bought used, two chairs for clients, and a bookshelf with my law books and case files. Then, a window that looked out over the street, giving me a view of the coffee shop below and the people coming and going.
I'd had bigger offices. Nicer offices. Offices with floor-to-ceiling windows and assistants who brought me coffee and partners who clapped me on the back and told me I was going places.
But I liked this better.
I sat down at my desk and pulled up my client's file. Rebecca Morrison, 42, married for twenty years, two kids in high school. Her husband hadn't technically done anything wrong: no cheating, no abuse, no obvious betrayal. He'd just... stopped trying. Stopped seeing her. Stopped caring.
And she'd finally decided she deserved better.
I'd helped her draft the separation agreement. Worked out a custody arrangement that prioritized the kids. Made sure she got a fair split of their assets. The meeting today was just to review everything before we filed.
It was good work. Important work. The kind of work that actually mattered.
Not the kind of work that got you named partner or featured in legal publications or made your parents proud at dinner parties.
But it mattered to Rebecca. And that was enough.
The meeting ran long. By the time Rebecca left—calmer, more confident, ready to move forward—it was almost eight PM. I locked up the office and headed back down the narrow staircase.
The street was quieter now. The coffee shop below had closed. The restaurants were in their dinner rush, warm light spilling onto the sidewalk.
I thought about going home. The one-bedroom apartment I'd moved into years ago when I finally accepted that the hotel wasn't sustainable. It was small but clean, in a neighborhood that was slowly gentrifying. Not fancy, but mine.
But I wasn't ready to go home yet.
I walked instead. No destination in mind. Just walking, hands in my pockets, watching the city transition from day to night.
I ended up at the park near the university. There was a running trail that circled the perimeter, one I used sometimes when I couldn't sleep and needed to burn off the restless energy that came from three cups of coffee and too many hours sitting at a desk.
I sat on a bench near the trail and watched people go by. Runners, mostly. A few walkers with dogs. A couple holding hands, moving slowly, talking about something that made them both laugh.
Emma used to run. Back in college, she'd do half marathons at the drop of a hat. I'd go watch her sometimes, wait at the finish line with water and a sweatshirt because she always forgot to bring layers.
I wondered if she still ran. If she'd kept that part of herself or if she'd let it go like so many other things during our marriage.
Except she hadn't let it go. She'd let me go. And then she'd rebuilt everything I'd helped destroy.
A runner passed by—tall, auburn hair, moving fast. For a split second, my heart jumped, thinking it might be her. But it wasn't. Just someone who looked vaguely similar in the fading light.
I needed to stop this. Stop thinking about her. Stop wondering what she was doing, who she was with, whether she ever thought about me at all.
Dr. Reeves would tell me to focus on myself. On my own growth. On becoming the kind of person who wouldn't make the same mistakes.
And I was trying… God, I really was trying.
Three years of therapy. Three years of working on my practice, helping clients, doing work that mattered. Three years of staying sober, staying focused, staying away from the self-destructive patterns that had almost killed me.
But seeing her today had cracked something open. Reminded me of everything I'd lost. Everything I'd thrown away for five months in hotel rooms with someone who'd walked away the second it got complicated.
Sarah.
I hadn't thought about her in months. Hadn't seen her since she'd ended things in that hotel room three years ago. I'd heard through the legal grapevine that she'd left her father's firm, moved to New York, was working at some big corporate firm doing M&A work.
Good for her, I guess.
She'd gotten out. Moved on. Rebuilt somewhere else.
And I was still here. Still in the same city where everything had fallen apart. Still running into ghosts on random sidewalks.
My phone buzzed. Not Marcus this time, but a text from Dr. Reeves.
Session reminder for Thursday at 3 PM. See you then.
I typed back:
Thanks. See you Thursday.
Then I stood up and started walking home.
The apartment was dark when I got there. I flipped on the lights and looked around. It was neat: I'd learned that from therapy too, that keeping my space clean helped keep my mind clear. But it was also sparse. Minimal. Like I was still waiting for permission to actually settle in.
I heated up leftover Chinese food and sat on the couch, eating straight from the container while I scrolled through my phone. News articles. Work emails. Nothing interesting.
I pulled up my photos app and scrolled back three years. Found the folder I'd labeled "Before" and never deleted.
Pictures of Emma and me. Wedding photos. Vacation photos. Random snapshots from when we were happy, or at least when I'd thought we were happy.
There was one from our honeymoon in Greece. Emma in a white sundress, smiling at the camera, the ocean behind her. She looked so young and trusting. Like she believed we'd last forever.
I'd failed her so completely.
I closed the photos app and put my phone face-down on the coffee table.
Dr. Reeves had asked me once what I wanted. Not what I thought I should want, not what would make me feel better about myself, but what I actually, truly wanted.
I'd sat in her office for five minutes, unable to answer. Because the truth was pathetic. Humiliating.
I wanted Emma back.
And now I knew exactly what that meant.
I didn’t want the Emma from our marriage, the one who'd given up everything for me and slowly disappeared into the background of my ambition. I didn’t want the Emma who'd waited for me every night while I fucked around with someone else.
I wanted the Emma I'd seen today. Strong. Independent. Happy. Thriving. The Emma who'd looked at me like I was just someone she used to know and then walked away without a second thought.
I wanted her back. And I had no right to want that.
So I did what Dr. Reeves had taught me to do when the wanting got too loud.
I made a list.
Things I'm grateful for:
My practice (small but honest)
My sobriety (three years, no slip-ups)
My health
Marcus and the few friends I made
My parents (still talking to me, even after everything)
A second chance to become someone better
Things I need to work on:
Letting go of the past
Accepting that Emma has moved on
Believing I deserve happiness too
Not punishing myself forever
Things I want:
To help more clients
To rebuild my reputation (slowly)
To wake up without the weight of guilt
To stop looking for her in every woman on the street
To forgive myself
I stared at the last one for a long time.
To forgive myself.
Dr. Reeves said that would be the hardest part. That I could apologize to Emma, make amends to everyone I'd hurt, rebuild my entire life from scratch… but none of it would matter if I couldn't forgive myself.
And I didn't know how to do that yet.
I set my phone aside and finished my cold Chinese food. Tomorrow I had three client meetings and a court filing due. The day after that, two consultations and a pro bono case for a woman trying to escape an abusive marriage.
Normal things. Good things. The kind of work that made me feel like maybe I was contributing something to the world instead of just taking from it.
Emma had moved on. Built a life I wasn't part of. Become someone amazing without me.
And maybe that was exactly what needed to happen.
Maybe the best thing I could do—for her, for me, for everyone—was to let her go. Stop hoping for a second chance I didn't deserve. Stop thinking about what could have been if I hadn't been so monumentally stupid.
Just let her be happy.
Even if that happiness didn't include me.
I cleaned up the takeout container, brushed my teeth, and went to bed.
And tried not to think about the fact that she'd smiled when she checked her phone.
Smiled at a text from someone who wasn't me.
Someone who probably deserved her more than I ever had.