CHAPTER THREE
I had spent twenty-two years believing Terrence’s worst habit was cheating.
It wasn’t. Cheating had at least been honest in its ugliness.
There was a woman, a hotel receipt, a lie that could be held up to the light and called what it was.
Control was quieter. Control sounded like concern.
It wore a nice watch, paid bills on time, and asked why I was making everything difficult.
It reminded me how much easier life could be if I stopped overreacting.
By three fifty-five the following Thursday, I was standing in my unfinished kitchen with seven cabinet samples lined across the plywood island and a printed copy of Terrence’s email in my purse.
Warren had not asked whether I wanted to discuss it.
He had simply sent me the documentation, the security steps he had taken, and the name of the attorney his office used for project interference. No drama. No question marks. No suggestion that I call my ex and calm him down. I liked that more than I should have.
“You’re early,” Warren said from the back doorway.
“You’re holding a level. I assume that means I interrupted something important.”
“I was checking the pantry wall.”
“Is it still a wall?”
“For now.”
He wore charcoal work pants and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. No tie. No coat. A yellow pencil rested behind one ear. The outfit should not have been attractive.
The forearms made it unfair.
I took the email from my bag and placed it on the island. “How did he even know who the cabinet company was?”
“Original estimate was attached to the insurance inventory you sent your divorce attorney. Could’ve seen it there.”
“I changed the design after that.”
“He didn’t know the authorization code. That’s why the cancellation failed.”
I looked at him. “You had an authorization code before this?”
“For major changes.”
“And now?”
“Now the code is verbal and changes every week. My office verifies it with you through the number on your contract. Nobody calling from another number gets access.”
“You do this for every client?”
“I do it for clients with complicated ownership, active litigation, or family interference.”
There was no pity in his voice. Good. I had received enough pity during the divorce to last me into retirement.
“What did your attorney say?” he asked.
“Portia’s cousin is handling it. She sent a notice this morning.”
“Portia has a cousin for everything.”
“She has a cousin for situations and a man for emergencies.”
“Different people?”
“Depends on the emergency.”
His mouth almost moved.
I tapped the email. “Terrence says he was trying to protect me from an unnecessary expense.”
“Cabinets were in the approved budget.”
“So did he.”
“You don’t have to explain it to me.”
“I’m not explaining. I’m practicing saying it without calling him a controlling motherfucker.”
Warren looked down at the samples. “How’s it going?”
“Poorly.”
That got the smile. A real one this time.
Brief, but enough to change his whole face.
At the party, Portia had called him fine.
That word felt too young for what he was.
Warren was handsome in a way that didn’t ask to be noticed.
His beard was cut close, his skin deep brown, his eyes steady and dark.
Silver threaded his hair at the sides, and he carried himself like he trusted his own decisions.
Terrence had carried himself like he expected other people to trust them too. There was a difference.
Warren slid the cabinet samples into a straighter line. “Let’s start over.”
“We already started over twice.”
“You keep choosing colors you don’t like.”
“I like warm white.”
“You said it looks clean.”
“That’s liking it.”
“That’s describing it.”
I folded my arms. “You’re very invested in my cabinets.”
“I’m invested in not installing twenty-seven thousand dollars of something you’ll hate in six months.”
“Twenty-seven?”
“Including panels and pantry.”
“Why would you say the number out loud?”
“You signed it.”
“I signed it during a vulnerable period.”
“You negotiated the hardware down twelve percent.”
“I can be grieving and fiscally responsible.”
He leaned one hip against the island. “What color do you like?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, Warren. I really don’t.”
The answer came out sharper than I meant it to. He didn’t rush to smooth it over. That was another thing about him. He let a moment exist without stuffing words into it.
I touched the edge of a cream sample. “Terrence hated color.”
Warren’s attention stayed on the samples.
“He said strong colors made a house look smaller,” I continued. “Every room we ever painted was some version of sand, oatmeal, linen, or bone. Do you know how many names there are for beige?”
“A lot.”
“Too damn many.”
“So don’t choose beige.”
“I don’t know what the hell I like because for twenty-two years, I got good at liking what didn’t start an argument.”
The truth sat between us, plain and embarrassing.
I expected him to tell me this was my chance to rediscover myself.
People loved saying things like that to newly divorced women, usually while handing them a journal.
Instead, Warren reached beneath the island and pulled out a sample board I had not seen.
Deep green. Not blue-green. Not gray pretending to be green.
A rich, dark shade that made the brass handle resting on it look warm. I stared.
“You kept looking at this one in the showroom photos,” he said.
“I never picked it.”
“You enlarged it twice on the tablet.”
“You were watching me?”
“I was doing my job.”
“That sounds convenient.”
“It usually is.”
I picked up the sample. The color reminded me of old trees after rain, velvet theater curtains, and the dress my mother wore to my college graduation. It felt like a decision Terrence would have questioned until I put it back.
“I like this,” I said.
“You made that clear.”
I looked at Warren. “Don’t get arrogant.”
“Too late.”
The laugh escaped me before I could decide whether he deserved it.
He moved the warm-white sample away and set the green in the center. “Green lowers. White oak uppers. Brass hardware. Stone with movement, not heavy veining.”
“You already designed it.”
“I gave you an option.”
“You gave me the option you knew I wanted.”
“That’s what you hired me for.”
I ran my thumb over the painted wood. “What if I get tired of it?”
“Then in ten years, you paint it.”
“Ten?”
“Good cabinets should outlast your current fear.”
I went still. He seemed to realize the sentence had gone somewhere he did not intend. His gaze shifted to the plans.
“I mean—”
“I know what you meant.”
He nodded. I signed the color approval. Deep green. No committee. No argument. No asking Asha, Portia, my mother, or the group chat whether it was too much. My hand shook a little after I put the pen down. Warren noticed. He didn’t mention it.
“Stone yard tomorrow,” he said. “Ten a.m.”
“I have work.”
“You said Fridays are remote.”
“I did?”
“During the contract meeting.”
“That was three months ago.”
“I take notes.”
“About my schedule?”
“About the project.”
I gave him a look. He met it without blinking. The front door opened before I could decide what to say. Terrence walked in carrying a tall fiddle-leaf fig in a white ceramic pot. For one stupid second, all I could think was that he had always hated houseplants because they dropped leaves.
“Nadine?” he called.
My body tightened before my mind caught up. Warren straightened. Terrence came through the living room, saw us standing beside the cabinet samples, and stopped. He wore a navy overcoat over a suit, polished shoes, and the expression he used when he wanted everybody to know he was being reasonable.
“I knocked,” he said.
“You also opened the door.”
“It was unlocked.”
“Because people are working here.”
His eyes moved to Warren. “I see that.”
Warren said nothing.
Terrence set the plant near the back wall. “This is for the house.”
“I don’t need a plant.”
“Everybody needs something alive in a new place.”
The sentence sounded prepared.
I looked at the leaves. “Take it with you.”
“Nadine.”
“You tried to cancel my cabinets.”
“I tried to stop you from being taken advantage of.”
“By the contractor I hired?”
“By anybody. You’re making big decisions fast.”
“The divorce took eighteen months.”
“I’m talking about the house.”
“It’s my house.”
His jaw tightened. “I know whose name is on the deed.”
“Then why did you tell the cabinet company you owned it?”
“I told them I had a financial interest.”
“You don’t.”
“Not legally.”
The words hit the room hard. Warren moved then, not toward Terrence but toward the tablet on the far end of the island. He picked it up and stepped back, making it clear he was present without inserting himself into my marriage. Former marriage. I held on to that distinction.
Terrence lowered his voice. “Can we talk alone?”
“No.”
His eyes flicked toward Warren again. “You comfortable discussing family business in front of a stranger?”
“I’m comfortable discussing my project in front of the man running it.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“You’re right. This is you walking into my home without permission.”
He stared at me. In the past, that stare would have made me soften my tone. I would have started explaining. I would have tried to leave him with his dignity even while he stepped on mine. I didn’t.
Terrence took a slow breath. “Asha called me upset after the party.”
The guilt came quick and familiar.
“What happened?”
“She didn’t like seeing people laugh about us online.”
“I told everybody not to disrespect you.”
“There were pictures of a divorce cake.”
“It was my party.”
“Our daughter is part of this.”
“She is not a reason for you to interfere with my house.”
“I’m not interfering. I’m trying to make sure you don’t get caught up in all this freedom shit and wake up six months from now wondering what you did.”
My face went hot. Warren’s expression did not change, but the room around him seemed to.
I stepped closer to Terrence. “What exactly do you think I did?”
He looked at my silk scarf, the cabinet samples, the unfinished room. “You’re acting like everything we had was a prison.”
“No. I’m acting like it’s over.”
His mouth pressed into a line.
“That’s the part you can’t stand,” I said. “Not the party. Not the cabinets. Not even the divorce. You can’t stand that I made a decision you can’t revise.”
“Nadine, I’m not your enemy.”
“Then stop treating my boundaries like a negotiation.”
Silence.
Cedric appeared briefly in the doorway from upstairs, saw the three of us, and disappeared again without a sound.
Terrence picked up the plant.
He looked at Warren. “I hope you know what you’re stepping into.”
Warren’s voice stayed even. “I know the scope of my contract.”
It was such a dry answer I almost smiled. Terrence did not.
He turned back to me. “Call me when you calm down.”
“No.”
He paused. I had never answered him that way. Not without more words to make it easier.
“No?” he repeated.
“I’m calm now. And I’m not calling.”
He left with the plant. The front door shut. My legs felt weak all at once, and I hated them for it. I gripped the edge of the island.
Warren stayed where he was. “Do you want me to have the locks changed today?”
The question was practical enough to save me.
“Yes.”
“I’ll call the locksmith.”
“And install a camera at the front door.”
“Already in the electrical plan.”
“Move it up.”
“Done.”
I looked at the green sample again. “Do you think this is too dark?”
“No.”
“Are you saying that because you picked it?”
“I didn’t pick it.”
“You pulled it out.”
“You looked at it.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It is when you’re my client.”
I glanced at him. “You always this stubborn?”
“Usually more.”
My breathing steadied. He made the call to the locksmith while I stood beside him.
No performance. No asking whether I was sure.
He gave the address, authorized an after-hours charge, and arranged for the old key code to be deleted from the smart lock.
When he finished, I touched the green cabinet sample one more time.
“Order them,” I said.
Warren nodded. “I will.”
“No more beige.”
This time, his smile came slowly.
“No more beige,” he agreed.