CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
NORA
Month Four
Rhett joins our final Oslo practice shoot at my invitation.
Not as a subject. As a pair of hands.
We are photographing a youth clinic at an outdoor rink, and the organizers need someone to demonstrate shooting mechanics. Rhett wears borrowed skates and a plain black coat. No Breakers jersey. No captain introduction.
The children recognize him anyway.
Chaos follows.
He signs sticks, answers questions, and redirects every compliment toward the local players. When one boy asks whether I am his wife, Rhett looks at me before answering.
"Nora is my former wife," he says. "She is also the photographer in charge, so you should ask before blocking her shot."
The boy says, "Do you still love her?"
Rhett remains calm. "Yes. But that is not information you can trade at school."
The children laugh.
I do too.
Later, we walk along the rink while Adrian records interviews. A local photographer captures Rhett carrying light stands behind me. By evening, the image appears online.
brEAKERS CAPTAIN REUNITES WITH EX-WIFE IN OSLO.
My stomach tightens.
Four months ago, a headline could take ownership of my day. Now I call Tessa before she calls us.
"I want one statement," I say. "Joint, brief, no denial and no reconciliation announcement."
Rhett sits across the hotel lounge, listening.
Tessa asks, "Exact wording?"
I read what I wrote.
Nora invited Rhett to attend the Oslo exhibition. They remain close and are spending private time together. Neither will comment further.
Rhett says, "Use Nora Bennett first."
Tessa sighs. "The grammar already does. You have become exhausting in a new direction."
The statement goes live.
Rhett does not post it separately.
"You can," I tell him.
"Do you want me to?"
"Yes."
He shares the statement and a link to the museum exhibition. No photograph of us.
I sit beside him on the lounge sofa. "You did everything right."
"That sentence is terrifying."
"Do not ruin it."
His hand rests palm-up between us.
I place mine in it.
"I want to try," I say.
He becomes very still. "Try what?"
"Dating. Slowly. Exclusively. As divorced people who know exactly why the marriage failed."
His eyes close.
When they open, hope is visible but contained.
"Yes."
"There will be rules."
"Maren can draft them."
"No grand declarations. No assuming I move back. No treating therapy as completed. No hiding me and no using me for branding. We decide public boundaries together."
"Yes."
"You are allowed to disagree with me."
"A dangerous clause."
"Necessary."
He lifts my hand to his mouth, then pauses.
"May I?"
"Yes."
He kisses my knuckles.
The gesture is old-fashioned, ridiculous, and so careful it nearly undoes me.
"One more rule," I say.
"Anything."
"Do not say anything when you mean anything."
He smiles. "I disagree already."
"Promising."
Our first date as ex-spouses begins with cold tea in a hotel lounge and ends with a walk through snow.
No one wins.
No one returns.
We begin.