33. Chapter 33
Julian
Much too eager to meet her, I purposefully arrive at the restaurant twenty minutes early, coming straight from work.
It’s fine. Since I’m here first, she won’t even know how early I arrived.
I remember her advice from last week: five or ten minutes is fine, but thirty minutes is inconsiderate.
Not those exact words, but close enough.
Choosing a table closest to the entrance so I can see when she comes in, I immediately sit and fiddle with my cufflinks.
As Leo pointed out during our dinner last week, I’ve been investing in sustainable energy as of late, and his project has inspired me. I have a meeting with Robert Thompson of the Thompson Architecture Group this coming Monday to brainstorm sustainable housing opportunities.
At exactly three, the door opens and Elowen walks in. Her green dress flutters as she reaches my table.
“Hi,” I say. “Thanks for coming.”
“Of course.” She sets her purse on the empty chair. “I’ll just order first, if that’s okay?”
“Yes, sure, absolutely.” Too many affirmatives. I’m overcompensating. Watching as she approaches the counter with that straight-backed grace she’s always possessed, I note how Elowen knows the barista’s name. Of course, they chat easily as her order is prepared.
When she returns with her almond milk chai latte, she asks how I’ve been.
“Good. Fine. I’ve been…” I hesitate, weighing the corporate response against the truth. The old Julian would have said “excellent,” regardless of reality. The new Julian is trying something different. “I’ve been working on some things…personal things.”
Her brows rise slightly, but she doesn’t press.
“You already know about my cooking, but I’ve taken up jigsaw puzzles over the past few days,” I admit.
“And word games. Crosswords, mostly. I’ve also attempted Sudoku.
It turns out I have a very low tolerance for being told I’m wrong by a grid of numbers.
After two minutes of giving it a stern talking to, I put my Kindle in the toilet. We’re not on speaking terms.”
“You always did prefer words to numbers, despite your profession. Remember when we did the Monday crossword in bed once? Only once.”
Yes. I can’t believe I’d ever forgotten, but I had. There’s a physical pull in my chest to that random Monday night. I don’t even have to search for the memory; now that I remember, it’s there, filed under Perfect.
“I remember,” I say, my voice dropping. “You stole the pen, a felt-tip that bled through the paper because you kept pausing to think.”
“I wasn’t pausing to think,” she counters, her eyes dancing. “I was waiting for you to stop hyperventilating because I filled in 9-Across without counting the squares first.”
“It was ‘crimson,’” I say instantly. “Seven letters. You tried to fit ‘maroon.’ It was a disaster, El.”
“Crosswords are supposed to be easier on Mondays!” She reaches out, her hand hovering near mine on the table, not touching, but the heat is there.
“You were so annoyed, and then you gave up. You laid back, let me ruin the puzzle, and started giving me clues for the rest while I traced the ink on your palm.”
“I didn’t give up,” I correct her, though my heart isn’t in the defense. “I transitioned into a consultant role.”
“You fell asleep after a few minutes,” she whispers, the memory softening her entire face. “That was the only time in our entire marriage I saw your brain actually turn off. I think it was the scotch from earlier that night.”
The silence that follows is light. It’s the feeling of reminiscing. “I loved that night,” I admit. “I don’t know if it was the bed or the alcohol, or you combined with both, but I’d felt so relaxed.”
“I know,” she says. “I could tell by the way you didn’t fix the mistakes the next morning.”
“I’ve been making words out of the letters in ‘Buttons Sanctuary Academy,’” I tell her, offering up a piece of my current madness like a gift.
“Oh, boy.” She grins. “Give me your best one.”
“Academy,” I say with fake seriousness.
Her eyes widen before she playfully slaps my arm with the back of her hand. “Julian! You can’t make words that are the original word!”
“I know, I know, I’m kidding,” I say. “My favorite is actually remand, or maybe mentor. I think Meredith’s would be crayons, Leo’s Saturn, and yours dreams.”
“Oh my God, yes! Those are perfect words for us.”
Elowen
I had agreed to have coffee and talk with my estranged husband because dinner had been so light. It was even—dare I say—fun. And now here we are again, having a casual conversation that is nothing like the ones prior. The ones where Julian spoke at me, rather than with me.
The steam from my chai latte rises in a fragrant swirl, smelling of cinnamon. It’s begun to rain outside, which only adds to the charm of our meeting. Across the table, Julian is watching me as I take the last sip.
“Need a refill?”
“Oh,” I say, surprised that he noticed I’d finished. “That would be great.”
He grabs my cup and heads to the counter.
Meanwhile, in the back of my mind, I start playing a game with the name of the sanctuary.
I scramble the letters, pulling them apart like I’m trying to solve a puzzle.
B-U-T-T-O-N-S S-A-N-C-T-U-A-R-Y A-C-A-D-E-M-Y.
I find the T. The Y, the R, the A, the N, and another T.
Tyrant.
The word fits perfectly into the name of my dream, a reminder of the man who once controlled the air I breathed.
But looking at him now, the word feels inaccurate.
Why couldn’t we have been this version of us for the last eight years?
Why did it take a separation and a pro-con list and a cat sanctuary to make him see me?
Julian returns with my drink, and after he sets it down, he sits, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
“Elowen,” he says, his voice dropping into that serious, low register. “I’ve been thinking a lot about us. I know we can’t go back, and I wouldn’t want to, honestly. What I forced upon us before wasn’t healthy.”
I stay quiet, knowing where he’s going with this, but frozen quite the same.
“I was wondering if we might try again,” he continues, his hands clasped on the table. “Not resuming our old marriage, but working to keep what we currently have.”
I look at him, and the grief of our lost years washes over me. I wish we hadn’t wasted a decade on power dynamics and “weighted scores.” I wish I hadn’t had to disappear for him to realize I was already there.
“I think that depends on what all that means,” I say finally, afraid we’ll slip back into old patterns, and I can’t do that again.
I won’t do that again.
He talks about respect and boundaries, and I offer him concrete steps: co-parenting and monthly family outings. I see the relief in his face, the way he accepts my terms without trying to negotiate them. It’s so different from the man I left.
When we finally stand to leave, the rain is now drumming a calming beat on the roof.
I walk ahead of him, and I feel his hand rise, intended for the small of my back.
It’s a gesture of habit, of ownership. I hold my breath, waiting for the touch that usually makes me feel like an object being guided.
But the touch never comes. I glance back and see his hand hovering an inch away, his fingers curling back into a fist as he deliberately lowers it to his side.
He noticed and stopped himself. Loving this new version of him, I briefly reach for his hand, wrap my fingers around his, squeeze, and then release.
“I’ll see you at the sanctuary,” he says, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Drive safely, Elowen.”
“You too, Julian.”
I watch him walk away into the rain, his head tilted. I stand there for a long moment, my key fob in my hand, the distance between us not as painful as it once was. Maybe we can do this after all.