Chapter 21 Emma
"You don't have to go."
Jess's voice came through the phone speaker while I stared at my closet like it held answers instead of clothes.
"I know."
"I'm serious, Emma. You can text him right now and say you changed your mind. He'd understand."
I pulled out a blue sweater, held it up, put it back. Too dressy. "I don't want to change my mind."
"Okay." A pause. "Why not?"
I sat down on the edge of my bed. That was the question, wasn't it? Why had I said yes? Why was I putting on jeans at nine-thirty on a Saturday morning to have coffee with the man who'd shattered my life three years ago?
"I don't know," I admitted. "Closure, maybe? Or just... curiosity."
"Curiosity about what?"
"About whether he's actually different. Or if I've just been seeing what I want to see." I picked at a thread on my comforter. "Nine months of case referrals, Jess. Eighteen DV survivors. He's been doing this work consistently, showing up for people who need him. That means something."
"It means he's good at his job now. Doesn't mean he won't hurt you again."
"I know that."
"Do you?" Her voice was gentle but firm. "Because Emma, I was there. I watched you fall apart. I slept on your couch for two weeks because you couldn't be alone. And I love you, which means I'm terrified of watching you go through that again."
My throat tightened. "I'm not getting back together with him."
"Then what are you doing?"
"Having coffee. Listening to what he has to say. That's it." I stood up, grabbed the blue sweater again. "I can leave whenever I want. I'm in control here."
"Okay." Jess didn't sound convinced, but she didn't push. "Call me after?"
"I will."
"And Emma? If he says anything that feels like manipulation or excuses or blaming you—"
"I'll walk out. I promise."
"Good. Love you."
"Love you too."
I hung up and pulled on the sweater. Jeans, sweater, minimal makeup. Casual. Like I wasn't putting thought into this, even though I'd been awake since six AM trying on different combinations.
My reflection looked calm. Composed. Like someone who had her shit together and wasn't nervous about having coffee with her ex-husband.
I looked away before my face could betray the lie.
The coffee shop was on 5th Street, a ten-minute walk from my apartment. I'd suggested it specifically because it was public, neutral territory, close enough that I could walk home if I needed to leave quickly.
Control. This was about control.
I grabbed my jacket and keys, paused at the door.
I could still cancel. Pull out my phone, send a quick text. Sorry, can't make it. Something came up.
He'd accept it. Probably expected it, even.
But I'd been running from this conversation for three years. Maybe it was time to stop.
I locked the door behind me and started walking.
The morning was cool, early October settling into that perfect fall weather where you needed a jacket but the sun was warm on your face. The streets were quiet: too early for brunch crowds, too late for morning runners.
My mind wouldn't settle.
What was I going to say? What did I want from this conversation? An apology? I'd already gotten that, sort of, in the stiff formal language of divorce proceedings. Closure? Maybe. Understanding? Of what? Why he'd done it? Did the reason even matter anymore?
Maybe I just needed to hear him say it. To look him in the eye and have him acknowledge, without lawyer-speak or clinical distance, what he'd done. What it had cost.
Or maybe I just needed to prove to myself that I could sit across from him and feel nothing.
The coffee shop came into view. Small, local place, big windows facing the street. I could see people inside: Saturday morning crowd, couples reading newspapers, someone working on a laptop.
And there, at a table near the back.
David.
I stopped on the sidewalk.
He was facing the door, like he'd positioned himself to see me coming. He had a coffee in front of him already, and he was fidgeting with the cup, turning it in small circles. His hair was slightly damp, like he'd showered recently. He was wearing a gray henley and jeans, and he looked...
Nervous.
Actually nervous. Not the confident lawyer who'd cross-examined witnesses, not the ambitious associate who'd charmed clients. Just a man waiting to see if the woman he'd destroyed would walk through the door.
I could still leave. Turn around, text him from home, say I couldn't do this.
But I'd already come this far.
And despite everything, despite the fear and the anger and the three years of rebuilding myself from scratch, I wanted to hear what he had to say.
I took a breath, pulled open the door, and walked inside.
David saw me immediately. He stood up—too fast, almost knocking over his coffee—then seemed to realize what he was doing and sat back down. His hands went to the table, then his lap, then back to the table.
He was terrified.
The thought surprised me. I'd expected confidence, lawyer composure, the smooth charm that had gotten him through law school and partnership interviews and client meetings. Not this. Not a man who looked like he might throw up.
I walked to the table. Stood there for a second.
It was hard to believe, but there we were, face to face, and this…
This was happening.