Chapter 25
The thing about therapy?
It’s not instantaneous. It’s not quick. It’s sitting on a couch and choking on words you didn’t even know were still inside you. It’s peeling back layer after layer of stories you told yourself just to survive.
But eventually, everything comes to an end. Even the bleeding. Even the ache.
A lot has happened in the last month.
The best thing? Markus came home. He’s injured in ways we can’t see. The kind that doesn’t show up in MRIs or X-rays. But Quinn’s been with him every second, and we can do nothing but hope he’s going to be okay. Not whole, maybe, but healing.
My father was also discharged. He’s grumpy and stubborn, still refuses to use the cane even when his legs start to tremble.
But with physical therapy and my mother, he’s managing.
Sometimes I catch them whispering to each other in the kitchen when they visit, like teenagers.
It's weird and sweet and a little unsettling. I’ve been slowly letting them in, which is not easy.
Oh, and Zack, my older brother, moved back home.
That’s been... fun. Not. He’s trying to be the fun uncle, one that hasn’t been home in 20 years, and it’s like watching a sitcom that never got past the pilot.
He pushes boundaries like it’s a sport, lets the boys watch horror movies, gave them espresso once “just to see what would happen.” I genuinely might strangle him before the year is over.
Also, I got the promotion. It means more out-of-town trips.
More speeches. More pretending I’m not scared out of my mind when I walk into rooms full of men who try to interrupt me mid-sentence.
But with Aiden no longer working, it’s easier now.
He finally quit, gave his six weeks' notice, then used up his paid time off, just enough to carry him through.
That’s another thing. I’m going to ask him to move back in.
This past month, I feel like I’ve come to know him better than ever.
It’s not just the deep talks or the long drives or how he now asks when I need space instead of guessing.
It’s how I miss him. How every time I say goodbye after a date, it carves a little ache in my chest.
We still haven’t slept together. Not since before our anniversary.
And I’m not gonna lie, it’s not easy. There are moments when his hand grazes my lower back and I feel my body coil like it remembers too much.
There are nights he comes over and we lie side by side, not touching, not talking, just.. . breathing.
But weirdly? That’s what makes me think we might be okay. Because this time, we’re not rushing. We’re not hormonal sixteen-year-olds humping every time we’re close. This time, we’re choosing. And it’s a fun, deep and torturous process.
“Daydreaming about lover boy again?” Grant says, walking into my office like he owns the place.
I don’t even look up. “He’s not lover boy . He’s my husband.”
Grant snorts. “Right. And I’m the Easter Bunny. The way you’ve been giggling every time he texts? Lover boy.”
I roll my eyes but I can’t stop the smile from curling. Traitorous mouth.
Honestly, I thought it’d be weird, being Grant’s boss. Once upon a time we shared a cubicle, ate terrible microwave lunches, and bitched about everything from toner to bad leadership. Now I’m the one signing his time sheets.
But weirdly, it’s not weird.
Turns out Marx Media’s doing a full purge. Out with the redundant, the coasting, the ones who still think “Reply All” is a flex. In with the competent. Not necessarily young, but competent. I’ll take it.
I met the boss, Mr. Marx himself, when he crashed a board meeting. He looked around the room like he was bored before dropping a line I’ll never forget: “The days of interns doing the work of managers are over. From now on, we pay you for your work. Not your title.”
Cue nervous laughter. Cue sudden resignations.
When they found out the old marketing manager had been skimming off the side, using agency funds to pay for her yoga studio’s website, I was called in for input. Perks of being Administrative Head of Jacky’s, I guess. I recommended Grant.
He was stunned. I wasn’t. He’s smart, no-bullshit, and shockingly organized when he’s not trying to flirt with every human being in a five-mile radius.
It’s actually kind of nice. Working with someone who remembers where you started. Who knew you before you were... this . Still, the way he raises an eyebrow when my phone buzzes, makes me wanna transfer him.
“Seriously,” he says. “If he sends one more heart emoji, I’m blocking his number from your office line.”
I laugh, flick open the message. It’s a photo of Aiden, shirtless in his kitchen, holding a head of lettuce like it’s a damn trophy. With a message: “Perks of having a house husband.”
God help me. Lover boy.
I don’t respond, just lock my phone, and try to pretend the flutter in my stomach is just caffeine. It is not. It’s been one month. One. Month. Of talking, healing, therapy, no sex. None.
Tonight, that ends.
My parents are coming over to stay with the boys. I made up some excuse about a late dinner meeting which, to be fair, is only a lie if you don’t count Aiden’s tongue as an agenda item.
I even shaved. Like really shaved. Exfoliated. Lotioned. Spritzed. Mamma is getting some.
Grant’s already sitting in the chair across from mine texting on his phone. “Now that I’m management,” he says, kicking one leg over the other, “am I still allowed to… date the female employees?”
I blink. “Are you actually asking if it’s okay for you to date women who technically can’t say no to you?”
He cringes. “Oof. When you put it like that… yeah, that’s a bad idea.”
“Ya think?”
He grins. “Alright, point taken. No wooing subordinates. Got it.” Then he pauses, squints at me, and lets his eyes travel over me with exaggerated scrutiny. “Now you , however… you look like you’re ready to go to Booty Town.”
I frown. “Excuse me?”
He gestures with both hands. “Please. The hair. The perfume. The way your eyes keep drifting to your phone. You’re def going to Booty Town with Lover Boy tonight.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “As you so eloquently put it, yes. I’m ready for intimacy. The doc finally cleared us.”
He makes a face. “Cleared? What, like medically? Are you diseased?”
I laugh, then immediately regret it, waving my hands. “No, God, not like that. I meant the therapist. She finally said we’re emotionally safe enough for… the physical side of things. And yes. I’m ready.”
Grant nods slowly, then claps once. “Well. You go, girl.” A beat. Then, sheepishly: “Sorry. This is my first time having a female friend. I’m kind of figuring it out as I go.”
I smile at him. “You’re doing fine. Just… maybe less talk of Booty Town next time.”
“No promises,” he says, standing. “But I’ll try.”
Five o’clock finally hits, and I all but sprint out of the office.
I’m in my car before Grant can make another “Booty Town” joke. Lipstick reapplied at a red light. A quick fluff of my hair in the mirror as I park. My heart’s doing that fluttery, annoying thing like I’m sixteen again, sneaking out to meet him behind my grandma’s house.
Third floor. I’ve climbed these stairs before. But tonight? Tonight feels different.
I knock. The door swings open so fast, it’s like he was waiting on the other side. Maybe he was. Aiden stands there, barefoot in dark jeans and a black button-down rolled up at the sleeves. His smile’s slow, and he says nothing, just reaches for my hand and pulls me inside.
His apartment’s the same. But not really.
It’s a generic company apartment. The overhead lights are off.
The only glow comes from a row of mismatched candles on every surface; soft, flickering shadows on old walls and framed prints.
The curtains are open to evening sky, and something soft and low plays on a speaker in the corner.
It smells like garlic and thyme and something slightly burnt.
He shuts the door behind me with a quiet click, and for a second, I just stand there. Taking it in.
“Hi,” I say softly, smiling up at him.
“Hi,” he murmurs back, leaning down to kiss my cheek, not my lips, not yet. Teasing. “You look…” He doesn’t finish, just lets his eyes trail down and up, slow and warm. Like I’m something he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch.
There’s a little table in the corner; one I’ve never seen set like this. Two plates. Real plates. Napkins folded like swans, probably YouTubed an hour ago. A bottle of wine already breathing. And in the centre, a single candle in an old whiskey glass.
“You cooked?” I say, stepping toward the table.
“Your favourite,” he says. “I burned some of it.”
I laugh, sinking into the seat he pulls out for me. The chair’s a little wobbly, one leg uneven, but I don’t care. My heart is thumping like it’s trying to climb out of my chest.
He sits across from me, pouring the wine, and for a second, we just look at each other across the little table in the little apartment. Not saying a word. But saying everything.
It’s romantic and sweet and everything I would’ve loved… If I didn’t also want to jump across the table and attack him.
Seriously. A month ago, I wanted to launch my heel straight at his stupidly symmetrical face. Now?
Now I want to do things with my mouth that would make Dr. Claudia dramatically close her notebook and go, “Okay, session over.”
He’s talking about the wine. Or the playlist. I have no idea.
I can’t hear anything over the drumline in my chest. Reaching across the table, he goes to refill my glass, and his fingers brush mine, and it’s just- God.
It’s embarrassing how fast my skin responds.
Like my nerve endings are standing at attention, saluting him.
He smirks a little. He knows. Of course he knows.
I chew on a piece of garlic bread like it’s the only thing keeping me from climbing over this table and making very poor, very naked decisions.
“You okay?” he asks, eyes doing that gentle thing that makes me feel seen and peeled open all at once.
“Mm-hmm,” I say, nodding a little too fast. “Totally. Great. Super romantic. Love the bread.”
He leans back in his chair, that lazy smile tugging at his mouth. “You sure?”
“Nope,” I say brightly. “But I’ve committed to this whole civility thing so let’s see where it goes.”
He laughs, soft and low, and I swear it hits me like a physical touch. I reach for my wine, sip too fast, nearly choke.
His smile fades just a little, softens. “I missed this. You. Us.”
And just like that, I forget how to breathe. Because underneath the candles and the wine and the bread and the perfectly mismatched silverware… he’s still the boy I married. The man I wanted. The one who shattered me, yes.
But also, the one I can’t stop wanting.
And I swear, if he doesn’t kiss me soon, I am going to crawl across this table.