Chapter 19 Emma
Connor set down his fork and looked at me.
"You're doing it again," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
"That thing where you're physically here but mentally somewhere else." He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You've been doing it a lot lately."
We were at the Italian place we'd gone to on our first date since Connor’s return from Seattle. Four months ago now. Connor had made the reservation, said he wanted to take me somewhere nice. I'd known what that meant—relationship check-in, where-is-this-going conversation—and I'd come anyway.
Because he deserved that. Deserved honesty.
"I'm sorry," I said. "Work's been busy."
"Emma." He reached across the table, touched my hand gently. "I don't think this is about work."
My throat tightened. "Connor—"
"It's okay." He squeezed my hand once, then let go. "I've kind of been waiting for this conversation, if I'm honest."
I looked up at him. He was smiling… actually smiling, warm and genuine and somehow relieved.
"You have?"
"Yeah." He leaned back in his chair. "I like you, Emma. A lot. You're smart and funny and you care about people in this way that's just... it's beautiful. And for a while, I thought maybe we could be something."
"But?"
"But you're not here. Not really." He gestured between us. "We have good conversations, good dinners, good... everything, on paper. But there's no… God, I’m sorry for saying it like this, but no spark. No electricity. And I think…" He paused. "I think maybe you're still working through something."
My first instinct was to protest. To say I was fine, I was over my past, I was ready for this.
But Connor was right.
"I thought I was ready," I said quietly. "I wanted to be ready."
"I know. And for what it's worth, I think you've been trying really hard." He picked up his wine glass, swirled it. "But Emma, you can't force chemistry. And you can't be with someone just because they're good on paper."
"You're not just good on paper."
"I know. But I'm also not the guy who makes your heart race." He took a sip of wine. "And that's okay. Better to figure it out now than waste both our time pretending."
I felt my eyes sting. Not because I was heartbroken… I wasn't. But because he was being so kind about it, so mature, when I'd been the one checking out of this relationship without fully realizing it.
"I'm sorry," I said. "You deserve someone who's all in."
"So do you." He smiled again. "And Emma? I don't think it's about being ready or not ready. I think that… I think that maybe you're just waiting for the right person."
I didn't know what to say to that.
Connor smiled. "Come on. Let's finish dinner like adults and part as friends. Because I do like you, even if this isn't going anywhere."
"I like you too."
"Good." He grinned. "Then you can help me workshop my dating profile when I inevitably redownload all the apps next week."
Despite everything, I laughed.
Two weeks later, I was fine.
Better than fine, actually. Being alone felt right in a way the relationship with Connor never quite had.
He'd been kind, thoughtful, exactly the type of person I should want.
But there'd been this constant low-level awareness that I wasn't being fair to him, that he deserved someone all-in, and I was only ever halfway there.
No more second-guessing. No more trying to feel things I didn't feel.
Just me, my work, my life.
It was enough.
Connor had texted a few days after our dinner.
Hope you're doing well. Meant what I said about being friends.
I'd texted back.
You too. And I'm holding you to the dating profile workshop.
Deal. Fair warning: my bio currently says "enjoys long walks on the beach and pondering the existential nature of infrastructure."
That's perfect. Don't change a thing.
We'd left it at that. Clean. Friendly. The way breakups should be when two people are mature enough to admit something isn't working.
Work had been busy. Three new DV referrals in the past week alone: one from David, two from other attorneys who'd heard about the clinic's program. We'd hired another NP to help with the caseload, which meant more administrative work for me but also meant we could help more people.
It was a good problem to have.
I was updating patient charts when the receptionist buzzed my office line.
"Emma? There's a David Harrison here. Says he has some files to drop off for the Rodriguez case?"
I paused, pen hovering over the chart. David was here. At the clinic. In person.
"Send him in," I said.
I had thirty seconds to prepare. Thirty seconds to remind myself that this was professional, that we'd been working together for months now, that there was no reason for my heart rate to pick up just because he was in the building.
The knock on my door came too soon.
"Come in."
David stepped into my office, and I was struck, as I always was, by how different he looked from the man I'd been married to. Thinner, yes. But also somehow more solid. Like he'd been hollowed out and then rebuilt from the inside.
"Hi," he said. "Sorry to drop by unannounced. I was in the neighborhood for a deposition and thought I'd save myself the postage."
He held up a manila folder.
"The Rodriguez case?" I stood and reached for it.
"Yeah. Just some additional documentation from the police department. Figured you'd want it for your records." He handed it over.
"How's she doing, by the way? Last I heard, she was settling in at her sister's place."
"She's doing well. Started therapy last week. Her kids are adjusting. The restraining order helped. Gave her some breathing room."
"Good,” I said. “That's good."
David glanced around my office, at the diplomas on the wall, the plant Jess had given me that I'd somehow kept alive, the photo of my family at my NP graduation.
"Nice office,” he said. “Very... you."
"Very me?"
"Yeah. Organized chaos. But like, the good kind." He gestured at my desk, which was covered in patient files, Post-it notes, and three different colored pens. "Looks like someone who's got a lot going on but knows exactly where everything is."
I looked at my desk. He wasn't wrong. I could find anything in that mess within ten seconds.
"That's either a compliment or you're calling me messy."
"Definitely a compliment. I once watched you find a specific patient chart in the ICU during a code. It was like watching a superpower."
The memory hit me unexpectedly. He'd visited me at work once, years ago, brought me coffee during a particularly brutal shift. There'd been a code, and he'd watched from the hallway as I'd navigated the chaos.
I'd forgotten he'd seen that.
"That was a long time ago," I said.
"Yeah." Something shifted in his expression. "You were amazing then too."
The air in the office suddenly felt too thin.
David cleared his throat. "Anyway. I should let you get back to work. Just wanted to drop those off."
"Thanks." I walked him to the door, hand on the doorknob. Professional, I reminded myself. Keep it professional.
He paused in the doorway. "Oh, and Emma? Fair warning… Maria might call you directly. She's convinced you're some kind of miracle worker. I tried to explain that you're just exceptionally good at your job, but she wasn't having it."
"I'll prepare for sainthood, then."
"You laugh, but I'm pretty sure she's already building a shrine. You might want to get ahead of it. Maybe issue a statement: 'I'm just an NP, please stop bringing me offerings.'"
I laughed. Actually laughed, the sound surprising me.
And for just a second—just one brief, unguarded moment—it wasn't like talking to David, my ex-husband, the man who'd betrayed me. It was like talking to someone new. Someone who made jokes about patient shrines and noticed that my organized chaos was organized.
Two people who'd never met before, sharing a laugh in a doorway.
The thought hit me so suddenly I forgot to breathe.
"I should get back to work," I said quickly. "Lots of charts to finish. Thanks for dropping this off."
"Right. Yeah. Of course." David stepped back into the hallway. "Take care, Emma."
"You too."
I closed the door and leaned against it.
My heart was racing. Why was my heart racing?
It was just David. David dropping off files. David making a stupid joke about patient shrines. David being... easy to talk to.
No. Not easy. Familiar. That's all it was. Old habit, old muscle memory from when we used to talk like this all the time. Before everything went wrong.
I walked back to my desk and sat down, pulling the nearest patient chart toward me. Mrs. Smith, hypertension follow-up. Routine. Normal.
I stared at the chart without seeing it.
Two people who'd never met before.
Where had that thought even come from?
I shook my head and picked up my pen. This was ridiculous. David was a professional contact. A colleague, at best. Someone I worked with because we both helped DV survivors, not because there was anything between us.
There wasn't anything between us.
There couldn't be.
I forced myself to focus on the chart. Blood pressure readings. Medication compliance. Diet and exercise recommendations.
Work things. Things that had nothing to do with the fact that I'd laughed at David's joke and for one brief moment had forgotten to hate him.
I didn't hate him.
The realization settled over me, unwelcome and undeniable.
I didn't hate him anymore. Somewhere in the past nine months of professional emails and case referrals and watching him show up for vulnerable women who needed help, I'd stopped hating him.
I didn't know what I felt instead.
But I knew I didn't want to figure it out.
I went back to my charts and didn't let myself think about it for the rest of the day.