Chapter 17
Mia
Spring has come to Burlington, and I have a rhythm in my life. A new one.
Katya and I go for a run together every weekday morning. Then we get ready for work, eat breakfast together, and she goes to her office, while I go to Little Luminaries.
Since I get home early, I do the grocery shopping. We share the cooking, and when we don’t feel like it, we go out or order in. We don’t spend all our evenings together—we take the space we need.
We have a cleaning lady, which means no one is running the Hoover on a Saturday morning, so weekends are for doing the laundry, going to the farmer’s market, watching bad television, and doing nothing.
It’s easy to be with Katya.
We are family, and we don’t get in each other’s way. We are comfortable with our silences. And we enjoy each other’s company.
Since my Christmas meltdown, Cristiano has become an increasingly integral part of our twosome.
He and Katya go way back to law school, but for me, he’d always been more of an acquaintance than a friend.
That changed after I spent nearly a week crying all over his farmhouse in Stowe.
Somewhere between the whiskey and the late-night talks, we became close.
“The momos are a must,” Cristiano announces once we’re seated at the Sherpa Kitchen in downtown Burlington.
Katya and I have never been here before, but he swears by the cozy Nepalese restaurant tucked away on College Street.
I am not a huge fan of food that burns my stomach lining, but I like spices. It’s just chili that gives me heartburn.
Cristiano assures us that Nepalese food is spicy but not crazy hot.
“The chicken chili? How much chili?” I ask as I scan the menu.
“Decent,” Cristiano says unhelpfully.
“Hey, let’s just jump in and see how it goes,” Katya suggests, a hand on my shoulder.
I’ve grown more careful about everything—or so she tells me. Apparently, it’s bleeding into mundane things like making food choices at a restaurant.
I bob my head in agreement.
We order too much, I think, but seeing how Cristiano eats, I realize we have not.
“I’m a growing boy,” he asserts.
“Growing wide, not tall,” Katya teases.
I’m eating more than I have been, but my appetite is still shot.
Grief empties you and fills you up, all at the same time, so I struggle with finishing a meal.
The food is excellent, and I manage to eat one momo and some roti with a chicken curry.
I should come here with…my mind stalls as the usual thoughts I have when I go somewhere nice pop up. I always want to share them with Aiden.
Used to want to share, Mia. Past tense.
Since our conversation about the divorce settlement and his attempts to negotiate dates, I haven’t seen him, but I have heard from him.
He texts every morning and night since I unblocked him, at his insistence. He says good morning and tells me how he dreamed I was back at home. He says goodnight and tells me how hard it is for him to sleep without me.
He sends flowers.
He sends books that he thinks I should read, and then texts to ask if I did.
If we were in the Victorian Era, this would be how a gentleman courts a lady.
She was compelled to write to her cousin in Bath: ‘Mr. Winter has not ceased in his courtship. He sends not only posies but volumes, and worse—he inquires if I have read them!’
This isn’t fiction. It’s me. It’s him. It’s real. And the ache in my chest every time his name lights up my phone is proof of it.
A constant, pulsing reminder of what it means—not in theory, but in truth—to be loved by Aiden Winter. Or at least, what it could mean…if I let him in again.
Katya eyes me. “I heard from Aiden’s lawyer.” That gets my attention. “It’s official. You signed. He counter-signed.”
We’d had to go through the contract again because he made a change—he added that thing about the eight dates.
The Parties agree that Aiden Winter may request up to eight (8) in-person meetings (“Dates”) with Mia Winter, to be completed by December 25 of this calendar year.
Each date will last at least six hours and will be held on either a Saturday or a Sunday.
Aiden will plan the dates without Mia's input.
Participation is mandatory but does not imply any obligation or agreement beyond the meeting itself.
Weird and romantic.
My fingers tighten around my glass of water. “I still can’t believe he didn’t fight it.”
“Mia, the man is practically throwing shares at you,” Katya says. “Thirty million dollars in assets, maybe more.”
Cristiano lets out a low whistle. “That’s not nothing.”
“But he did ask for those dates in return.” Katya is amused. She told me Aiden’s lawyer is as well. “It’s cute.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Cute?”
“It is that.” Cristiano drops his napkin next to his empty plate. “And it’s also very romantic.”
“I don’t know what he’s trying to achieve.” I try to sound breezy, but I hear the nerves in my voice.
Cristiano studies me carefully. “You still love him.”
I don’t answer.
Of course, I love him. I’ve loved him for eight years.
You don’t just shut that off like flipping a switch—if I could, I would’ve. God, it would hurt so much less if I were able to perform that miracle.
Katya reaches out and puts her hand on mine. “I know what I said before about Aiden not deserving you. And I stand by that—for who he was. Not the man he’s trying to be.”
I bite my lip. Her words comfort and unsettle me in equal measure.
“You’re allowed to want him back,” she adds. “Or not. Either way, I’m with you.”
Cristiano raises his glass of wine. “To fresh starts.”
We clink glasses, and for a while, we eat and talk about things that aren’t painful.
I fill them in on one of my students who tried to eat glue for lunch.
Katya talks about a horrendous divorce she’s working on, which makes me realize that mine is a walk in the proverbial park.
Cristiano, who specializes in non-profit law, talks about a homeless shelter he’s advising.
“Wait, wait…this shelter whose manager you are….” Katya makes a heart with her fingers.
He chuckles, sheepish.
“What?” I look at him and then at Katya. “What’s going on?”
He lets out a sigh. “It’s a first date…in more ways than one. First date with her and first date since….”
I clap, delighted. “Oh my God! That’s big news. When is this date? What’s her name? Tell us everything.”
Now, he laughs. Clean. It feels good to hear that.
“Her name is Lucia. And the date is this Saturday. We’re going to the Shelburne Museum to see a new art exhibit, and then see if we want to have dinner.”
“That’s very grown up,” Katya muses. “I think I want to do that next time I meet someone, thanks to Bumble. ‘Let’s go for a walk and see if we can even stand each other for five minutes, and then we can contemplate coffee.’”
I chuckle.
Katya’s had a string of lousy first dates for the past couple of years, ever since she and her boyfriend of three years called it quits. It hadn’t been dramatic or cruel—just a slow drifting apart. Less heartbreak, more the quiet sadness of something that simply didn’t work out.
“How do you feel about it?” Katya asks Cristiano.
He shrugs, the grief flashing in his eyes but not overwhelming him. “Good…weird.”
“She’d want you to be happy,” I remark gently.
I never met his fiancée, but the way he talks about her makes it clear—she had a big heart. The kind of woman who would want Cristiano to find joy again, not grieve and be alone forever.
He smiles like it hurts a little. “You’re right. She would.”
After dinner, Cristiano leaves, since he’s driving to the farmhouse, while Katya and I decide a walk will help our curry bellies.
The air is cool, crisp with spring’s early promise, and there’s a little pep to my step.
I’m happy that Cristiano is going on a date. And I’m relieved that the divorce papers are signed, and soon, I will, officially, be a single woman. Whatever that means when I’ve legally agreed to eight dates with my very-soon-to-be ex-husband.
We’re strolling past Bistro de Margot on College Street when a sharp, familiar voice slices through the night.
“Well, if it isn’t Burlington’s new little celebrity.”
“Christ on a crutch,” I mutter under my breath before I turn, already bracing myself. “Good evening, Edith.”
Katya rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck.
Edith Winter is sneering at me.
I deduce she’s just come from Bistro de Margot—the companion trailing a step behind her is clutching a glossy takeout bag stamped with the restaurant’s name.
I’ve met this woman before, though her name escapes me. I think she’s from Essex, and like all of Edith’s friends, she’s mousy, the lesser one. Aiden’s mother doesn’t do equals—only admirers, sycophants, or people she can boss around.
They’re both in designer coats and pearls, which they’re probably going to clutch any minute, I think, amused.
Both women look alike. The same plastic surgeon? Definitely the same hair salon, because they are similarly and perfectly coiffed.
“Do you know what they’re saying about my family?” she hisses as she storms toward me, high heels clicking on the sidewalk like gunfire.
“I have no clue,” I reply, a broad smile on my face because this woman, whom I didn’t want to upset so as not to irritate my husband, has absolutely no hold over me anymore.
Firstly, Aiden has cut his parents off, which, according to him, is apparently annoying the fuck out of them.
Secondly, if he doesn’t like how I treat his mother, he can take his legally-mandated dates and shove them up his ass.
“You’re laughing? After everything you’ve done to this family?”
Katya steps slightly in front of me to protect me. I’m touched, but I can handle Edith Winter.
“You manipulative little bitch. You think ruining my family gets you power? You’re nothing.”
“Walk away,” Katya warns, voice low and steady.
“Edith, this is neither the time nor the place for a show,” I add laconically.
I don’t like this woman. I don’t like that she’s making me the center of attention, because people are stopping to look. Some even have their phones out.
“You want a show?” Edith hisses—and then…she shoves me.
It happens so fast I can’t even brace. I stumble backward and crash hard against the metal edge of a parking meter.
Pain blooms across my lower back, bright and stunning.
A passerby catches me before I can fall on the asphalt, helps me up.
I blink through tears, shock burning through me. My back throbs.
Katya rushes to my side, her voice fierce. “You okay? You’re okay?”
I hear a nasally voice say, panicked, “Well, she pushed her and she’s hurt. There’s blood. Bring the fire department. The police. The EMTs.”
“Oh, please, stop pretending that you’re hurt,” Edith cries out stiffly, as if she didn’t just assault me in public.
“You assaulted her, lady,” someone cries out. Obviously not a local.
“Edith, I saw what you did,” another says. Obviously a local.
“I recorded it,” someone else announces.
And then there are lots of people talking at once.
“Who does she think she is, treating someone like that?”
“That’s her son’s wife.
“What a bitch!”
Katya rounds on my future ex-mother-in-law. “You assaulted her. We’re pressing charges.”
Edith rolls her eyes. “No one in Burlington is going to arrest a Winter. Don’t be ridiculous.”
Katya’s voice is deadly calm as she holds me to her. “You see that bruise? You see all that blood?” She points to my blue blouse that’s stained and smells like iron. “That’s your ticket to court.”
Edith turns pale. For the first time, there’s uncertainty in her eyes.