Chapter 23 - Oak
Twenty three-Oak
I hung up the phone after leaving Jordin my daily message.
My brother and parents weren’t happy about my new mindset, this desperate hope I was clinging to.
But I wasn’t letting go. The moment I’d signed the divorce papers, I’d noticed her new number scribbled neatly in the corner of the last page by her lawyer.
Clear as day. It was a sign. It had to be.
That was three months ago, right after the mediation.
I’d called her every morning since. She never answered.
I left messages. Sometimes it was a simple, “Good morning, Jordin. I hope you’re doing okay.
” Other days, I rambled—apologies, explanations, confessions of how badly I’d messed up.
I knew she listened because she didn’t block me, didn’t change her number.
It was the smallest, thinnest thread of hope, but I was hanging from it.
Every time I left a voicemail, I pictured how her face would look when she heard it. Jordin’s face was always an open book of her emotions.
The silence on her end was its own special kind of torture, a constant, quiet agony.
I dialed her number again. It rang twice and then clicked over to voicemail. I breathed through the spike of annoyance and waited for the beep.
“Hey, Jordin. It’s me. Again. I heard this line in a poem, and it sounded like you: ‘You were the sigh before the fall. The soft place I hit on the way down.’ That’s what you were for me.
Even when things were loud between us, you were still the silence I trusted.
I know I broke that. And maybe you’ll never call back.
But I’ll still call. Anyway... I hope you smiled at least once today. ”
I hung up and stared at the phone in my hand, my knuckles white, willing it to ring. When it did, my heart jumped into my throat. But the name on the screen wasn’t hers—it was my mother.
As soon as I said hello, she started talking in the middle of a conversation like always. “Oak, darling, you can’t live in the past,” she said, her voice crisp and certain. “I’ve set you up with someone. She’s lovely, Italian, from a good family. Just meet her. It’ll be good for you to get out.”
I didn’t argue. What was the point? I didn’t have the energy to resist her. Besides, a dark, defeated part of me whispered that maybe she was right. Maybe I needed a distraction from the ghost of my wife.
The next evening, I walked into the upscale restaurant she’d told me to go to, the smell of garlic and fresh bread wrapping around me.
At the far corner table, I saw her. A petite, dark-haired woman with big, expressive eyes and a smile that seemed a little too perfect.
She was maybe ten years younger than me, dressed in a black dress that probably cost more than my first car.
She looked exactly like the picture my mother had sent.
When I reached the table, she stood, extending a manicured hand. “Hi, I’m Valentina.”
“Oak,” I said, shaking it. “You’re very beautiful, Valentina, but I’m going to be honest. I’m only here because my mother forced my hand. We have no chance of working out. I’m… trying to get my wife back.”
Her eyebrows shot up, and then she laughed—a light, melodic sound that caught me off guard. “Good,” she said, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Because I like women. Well, mostly.” She shrugged, sipping her water. “We can sit, eat, talk, and then tell our parents it didn’t work out. Deal?”
I blinked, surprised by her candor, and then felt the first genuine relief I’d felt in months. “Deal.”
We ordered, making polite, effortless small talk. She asked about my work, my family. I asked about hers. It was easy, comfortable even, but the entire time, I couldn’t shake the heavy, cold weight in my chest.
After the food came, she leaned back in her chair, studying me with a perceptive gaze. “So, tell me about her.”
“Who?”
She smirked. “Your wife. The one you’re trying to get back.”
I hesitated, my fork hovering over my plate. “Jordin. She’s… everything. Smart, beautiful, talented. Fiercely loyal.” My voice cracked on the last word, and I cleared my throat. “And I cheated on her.”
Valentina nodded, her expression thoughtful rather than judgmental. “Why?”
I didn’t even have to think about it. The ugly truth was always right there.
“Insecurities. She’s incredible, and I never felt like I deserved her.
So, I sabotaged us.” I paused, the memory a fresh bruise.
“Not even sabotaged—that sounds too planned. I did something monumentally stupid to get a reaction, to test her. I think some part of me believed she would stick by me no matter what, after she got over the anger. Don’t ask me why; I’m a fucking idiot,” I admitted, the words tasting like ash.
“And now?” she asked, her tone gentle.
“Now, she’s with someone else.” I pushed my plate away, my appetite gone. “A famous singer. Ciar… something.”
Her eyes lit up with recognition. “Ciarán? Oh, I love his music! And he’s so—”
I glared at her, the possessive anger flaring hot and immediate.
She laughed, holding up her hands in surrender. “Sorry, sorry. Couldn’t help it. So, what’s your plan to win her back?”
“Plan?” I repeated, the word feeling foreign and useless. “I… don’t have one. I just call her.”
She leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her therapist mode clearly engaging. “Well, first off, you need to figure out what you actually want. Do you want her back because you love her, or because you can’t stand the idea of someone else having her? There’s a big difference.”
I stared at her, unnerved by how directly she’d sliced to the core of my turmoil. “What are you, a therapist?” I muttered.
She smiled, a slow, knowing curve of her lips. “Actually, yes. I am.”
I blinked, and then a dry, humorless laugh escaped me. “Of course you are. Figures.”
When dinner ended, I walked her to her car. The night air was cool, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves above us.
“Thanks for tonight,” she said, unlocking her sleek sedan. “And for being honest. It’s rare.”
I nodded, shoving my hands into my pockets. “You… you really are a therapist?”
She grinned. “I am. Why? Finally considering it?”
I hesitated, the words feeling awkward and heavy. “I might… I might actually call you for a session. Someday.”
Without another word, she reached into her purse and handed me a crisp, professional card. “Call me. We’ll set something up. No pressure.”
I stared at the card as she drove away. I probably wouldn’t use it.
I wasn’t a "therapy guy." But holding it in my hand, knowing the option was there—that maybe I could actually fix what was broken inside me instead of just begging for forgiveness—made me feel, for the first time in a long time, like I might be moving in the right direction.