Forty-Two
Shiloh didn’t expect to hear from Cary that night.
But he texted her a couple hours after he left. She was still awake.
“I’m sorry.”
“you didn’t do anything”
“That doesn’t matter to your daughter.”
“i’ll worry about my daughter,” Shiloh sent, frowning.
“Sorry. I’m sorry.”
Shiloh sat up to type with both thumbs. She took the time to capitalize and punctuate. “I’m not happy it went the way it did—but there’s no good way to be a divorced mom. Or a kid with divorced parents. This sort
of thing happens.”
She sat waiting for Cary to text back.
Finally he sent:
“It didn’t have to happen tonight. I feel like I broke something for you and her, for nothing, on my way out of town.”
The “for nothing” snagged in Shiloh’s chest. “This really isn’t yours to worry about,” she texted.
Cary didn’t reply.
Shiloh lay back down, still holding on to the phone. She was exhausted. She hadn’t washed her face. Her eyeliner felt tacky.
Her phone beeped. The text was so long, it got sent in two parts:
“I was so angry with you after the wedding for saying you were giving me an out. But what you were really saying was that
the stakes were too high for me”
“to even understand. And you were right.”
After a second, Cary sent:
“I don’t want to be the guy who makes your kids feel that way.”