Chapter 23
Mia
Ichange my outfit four times. Four times.
First, I went super casual. Shorts and a t-shirt.
“You planning on cleaning today?” Katya asked.
I went back to my closet. I put on a simple but nice cocktail dress.
“You planning on getting laid?” she asked.
I sighed and went back to the drawing board. The next one meets amusement. “Is he taking you to a frat party?”
So, maybe jeans and a sweatshirt was not it.
Finally, a simple pale blue summer dress with white flowers that came to mid-calf meets her approval.
“I don’t want what I’m wearing to scream I’m trying too hard,” I explain as I ponder if I should go with lipstick or lip gloss.
“You are trying too hard,” she remarks as she leans against the doorway of my bedroom.
“He doesn’t need to know that.” Lip gloss it is.
I forego eyeliner and just stick to mascara.
“Speaking of dates, how did Cristiano’s go?”
I just had a pedicure. My nails are painted a gorgeous pink. A happy summer color. So I can actually wear something cute.
On the other hand, does showing your pink toes mean ‘let’s fuck?’
“Goodish,” Katya says thoughtfully. “He says he had fun but has no desire to see her again, and he didn’t want to fuck her.”
“Did you and he ever…?”
Katya bursts out laughing. “Cris is…like a brother, a pal. Also, I knew his fiancée. She was great. I really liked her. Besides, he and I have zero sexual chemistry.”
I finally decided upon a pair of simple white sandals.
My toes look nice. Aiden can just go fuck himself—which I hope is all he’s doing and not Diana—if he has a problem with it.
“I don’t know when I’ll be able to date or even have sex,” I confess.
“You’re going on a date in about fifteen minutes, Mia,” she points out with a smirk.
I give her a dry look, barely hiding my irritation. “You know what I mean.”
She shakes her head, her eyes softened with compassion. “Do you know what you mean? Mia, it’s obvious to everyone, you want to reconcile with your husband.”
I bite my lower lip. “Do I?”
“Well, you at least want to see if he’s going to be a better husband, a better man, and, honey, that’s not a bad thing.
” She steps into my room, and tucks a loose curl of hair behind my ear.
“You love him. He loves you. You guys just need to figure out how to communicate better, and he has to earn your trust back…also”—she grins—“he’s got to get a lip transplant so you can get past him kissing her. ”
The memory of the kiss still hurts, but not as sharply as it used to.
It's been six months since Christmas Eve, when I handed him the divorce papers. It's been a month since the divorce was finalized.
But it's not only the passage of time that has made the difference.
Having Aiden apologize, tell me that he loves me every day, make an effort to change, give up his parents, defend me against Diana…all of it has blunted the pain, but it hasn’t taken it away.
I doubt anything can.
Some may say it was just a kiss.
But it’s more than that.
It’s that he wanted to kiss her.
How long did he want that?
How long, while he was with me, did he think of her like that?
Did he regret marrying me because he wanted her?
All the times he ignored me for her, all the times he was with her, whether in the office or outside, was he having these thoughts? And if he was, isn’t that the definition of cheating, even if it isn’t physical?
The action is less profound when your spouse has an affair. It’s the intent behind it that’s the knife that cleaves your heart.
“Stop it,” Katya growls.
“Stop what?” I pick up my straw purse and walk past her into the hallway.
“You know what.” She follows me into the living room. “Don’t think about the past. Focus on the present. You know what they say; stay in the moment. If you don’t like the moment, eat a cookie.”
“And hence have a cookie problem?” I smirk.
She laughs, and just then, there’s a knock on the front door.
I look at my watch. He’s on time. When was the last time he was on time? Never.
I rub my chest. Katya is right, I can’t keep bringing up the past—but how can I not?
Katya gives me a knowing look and wags her finger.
“He’s become real punctual.” I eye the door like it’s diseased. “Where was this when we were married?”
“He’s changing. He’s doing better. You gonna blame him for the past or accept that he’s actually making an effort in the present?” she challenges.
I scowl. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do,” she replies smugly as she flops onto the sofa.
I flip her the bird, and open the door.
His smile falters when he sees my face.
“Mia, hon, you need to deal with your cookie problem,” Katya calls out as I slam the door shut behind me.
“All okay?” Aiden asks.
“Sure,” I snap. “Let’s get this done with.”
Am I being a bitch? Hell, yeah.
Can I stop myself? No.
I have a major cookie problem!
He takes me to Trattoria Delia.
Tucked below street level in an old stone building on St. Paul Street, its warmth feels like an embrace the moment you step inside.
The glow from the low lights, the scent of roasted garlic and slow-simmered sauce, the best pasta in the city—this is where I come when I need to feel held by the world.
I’ve loved this place for years.
Whether I order their goat cheese ravioli or their pappardelle with lamb ragu (always with a glass of Barolo), every bite tastes like something remembered, not discovered.
I tried to get Aiden here several times, but it never happened. He was too busy. Too booked with work dinners. Too tired. Too…not with me.
Let go of the past, Mia. Try and live in the now. He brought you to your favorite restaurant. He’s making an effort. Enjoy it.
“You always talked about their goat cheese ravioli,” he says as the hostess leads us to a table.
I smile. It takes effort.
I want to scream, “Too little, too late,” but it would be a lie. I am touched that he brought me here. I am pleased he’s giving me so much of his attention.
I am angry that it took me leaving, it took us getting divorced, for him to get here.
If we ever reconcile, will this become the game plan? Every time he screws up, I have to dish out divorce papers?
Or maybe you could talk to him, Mia, and not wait in seething silence for six years?
He holds my chair and I sit. Aiden has always been a gentleman. But then he pulls out Diana’s chair for her as well.
I want to bang my head against the table, just to stop thinking. But I can’t. The thoughts keep coming. And with them, the ache sharpens. I’m already hurting, already drowning in it, but I keep pouring more in—like I deserve it.
I know why.
I feel guilty, ashamed, and scared for saying yes to this damn date. For giving him this chance. For letting him make me hope.
I feel like I’ve betrayed myself. Like I have no self-worth left.
What’s next? He’ll say, ‘Come home,’ and I’ll go—and then what? Back to the cold silences?
Back to his family that treats me like I don’t belong?
Back to being invisible?
Forgotten?
My breath shudders out of me like something cracked open.
“Baby.” His hand finds mine, warm, steady. His eyes search my face. “Tell me what’s going on in your head.”
Tears rise fast. I blink them back, shake my head.
I can’t tell him. I don’t want to give him more pieces of me to break.
“Please, Mia.” He squeezes my hand, not letting go.
I stare down at the pristine white tablecloth, my voice barely audible.
“I hate that you’re doing all of this now—after the divorce papers were signed. That when it actually mattered, when I was still yours, you didn’t respect me enough to even try. And I hate that I’m sitting here with you, because it makes me feel like I’ve lost respect for myself.”
My throat burns as I continue, spilling the poison inside of me. “I hate myself and you, and…everything inside me feels like a bleeding wound because of what you did.”
The words sit between us like broken glass.
I breathe like I just ran a marathon.
His eyes wear sadness the way clouds wear rain. He leans in, voice raw. “Please don’t hate yourself. Hate me. You have nothing to be angry with yourself about. I messed up, and I hate myself, Mia, for every time I left you alone. For every missed dinner. For letting my family make you feel small.”
He lifts my hand, kissing my skin softly. It’s intimate in a way that shatters me.
“I failed you, Mia. And that’s something I’ll live with forever. But this—us—these eight dates? They’re not about guilt. They’re about me finally waking up and realizing I had everything and treated it like nothing. I don’t want to go back. I want us to build something new. If you’ll let me.”
Silence stretches.
A server comes, but Aiden waves his hand to send her away, his gaze holding mine.
I close my eyes. I want to believe him—God, I do. But I don’t know if I believe in myself anymore. Of all the things his affair stole from me, the worst is the trust I once had in myself.
I open my eyes.
He’s watching me. His expression is soft, full of affection for me, mixed in with an aching and sincere apology.
I will have to learn to trust myself, I decide.
I will let Aiden try and make this right. And know that I’ll know when there’s no hope for us and have the courage to walk away, again.
Talking to him has eased some of the anger I’ve been carrying, and so I do what comes naturally to me—I reach for light. I try to rise above the pain, to find moments that fill me, that remind me what it feels like to be joyful.
I smile unsteadily. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”
He studies me as if trying to discern what’s going on inside my head.
Good luck, buddy, ‘cause even I don’t know what the hell is going on.
“You want to see the menu, or do you already know it by heart?” he teases, his voice hoarse, as he picks up the menu.
He’s letting go of his pain as I just did mine.
I chuckle, and it’s the first time all day I feel the knot in my stomach loosen.
We’re both considerably more relaxed after a glass of wine—and the gorgeous food does its magic as well.