Chapter 2 Then
I loved this house—what used to be my home—but what I loved most was its door. Original to the home, dark polished wood with ornate carvings, it reminded me of the doors in some of my favorite stories, portals that transported their characters and me to a magical, otherworldly place.
When Ethan and I bought the place, I wanted our home to feel that way—warm and inviting, whimsical yet cozy, each room unique, telling a story, like you’d stepped into a new adventure.
But Ethan wanted our home’s aesthetic to be “tranquil” and “cohesive,” and Ethan got his way.
He always got his way. Because I let him.
I thought that’s what love did—sacrificed, accommodated, did whatever it took to make the person you love happy.
Turns out, all it did was get me a house I never made my own before I had to give it up, and a simmering resentment that I’ll be reminded of this every week from now on, when I come either to pick up or part with Argos, my golden retriever.
The weather is miserable, which feels apropos for my first trip back to the house since I moved out. Gloomy skies, disgustingly muggy. Still, I chose to walk from my new apartment to my old house—knowing Ethan, he’s barely walked Argos the past week, and the dog will be desperate for exercise.
Brushing my humidity-frizzed hair back from my temples, I take a fortifying breath and start up the stairs. On my fifth step, I catch a noise ahead of me. I glance up and freeze.
There’s a man walking up to my house.
He seems oblivious that I’m behind him, which is awkward, though probably not as awkward as it would be if he knew I was staring at him as I trail him a dozen steps behind. I can’t help it, though. My curiosity is piqued.
As I hit the first stretch of flat concrete preceding the second long flights of stairs, I study him.
Faded black Pirates baseball cap worn backward, black basketball shorts, beat-up white Nike high-tops, a white T-shirt.
Tan skin. Dark licks of hair curling up beneath his ball cap’s brim.
Tall, maybe an inch or two taller than me.
By the time I’m climbing the second set of stairs, I’ve moved on to theories about why he’s here. Repairman, coming to fix something (Ethan is not handy)? Landscaper hired to maintain the garden I started? Maybe he’s here to ask Ethan if he wants to switch from Verizon to Comcast.
When he stops abruptly, I yelp, startled as I realize that while lost in my curious thoughts I significantly narrowed my following distance. I stumble sideways to avoid plowing into him.
The man spins and faces me, startling me again. There’s something familiar about him.
I stare at him, trying to figure out why.
Deep-blue eyes, dark circles beneath them.
Thick, scruffy stubble on his jaw and neck.
His shoulders are slumped like he’s exhausted; his mouth is set in a hard, flat line.
He exudes the same bleak aura of misery that I do. Maybe that’s why he feels familiar.
“Sorry,” we both say at the same time.
The man clears his throat, then says, “Didn’t realize someone was behind me.”
I start to force a smile because politeness, no matter how awful I’m feeling, was drilled into me growing up.
Then I remember my parents are two hundred miles away, I’m a grown-ass thirty-three-year-old woman whose life just fell apart, and I don’t have to make small talk and smile if I don’t want to.
“I’m just going to, uh”—I point up the stairs—“keep going…” Then I add, because the people pleaser in me is dimmed, but she’s not dead, “Feel free to join.”
The man hesitates for a second, then falls into step beside me.
I thought it couldn’t get more awkward when I was trailing behind him. I realize, now that we’re taking the steps side by side, that I was wrong.
Glancing at him, I say, “This is weird.”
He peers over at me. “Yep.”
I clear my throat. “But we will persist.”
“Been doing a lot of that lately,” he mutters.
His honest words hit my heart like it’s a struck tuning fork. Suddenly my throat is tight, my eyes wet. An embarrassing laugh-sob jumps out of me. “I, on the other hand, am doing so great.”
“Same,” he says quietly.
I dab my nose and the corners of my eyes. “Yeah?”
“Hell, yeah.” His mouth lifts at the corner, a commiserating, weary, not-quite smile. “I’m living the dream.”
We keep trudging up the steps. There are so many damn steps.
“So,” I say, trying for a breezy tone, like I didn’t just have a mini breakdown three stairs below. “What, uh, brings you… here?”
“I’m here to pick up my daughter.”
I freeze. My stomach drops. “Your what?”
The man stops, too. “My daughter,” he says slowly.
“Why… is your daughter here?”
He glances at the house and sighs. “I had the same question for my ex-wife.”
I stare at the house that Ethan took. That I let him take. My heartbeat thunders in my ears.
Ethan is already spending time with another woman, after saying he wanted to divorce, or, in his words, “consciously uncouple,” in order “to explore an unattached life and reconnect with himself.” Ethan is with a woman who has a daughter, after telling me for over a decade that he wasn’t ready to be a father.
“What about you?” the man asks.
I very rarely get angry. I am very angry right now. Between clenched teeth, I tell him, “I’m here to get my dog from my ex-husband.”
“Your ex-husband?” he says. “This is his place?”
I tear my gaze from the house and meet his eyes. “Yes.”
“Jen said…” A muscle jumps in his jaw. “She was sleeping over at a friend’s.”
I laugh emptily. “We’ve been divorced for a week.”
“Same for us.” He scrubs at his face and mutters, “Jesus Christ.”
I turn toward the house and start marching up the stairs.
“You’re pissed,” he says, catching up to me.
“I am livid.”
“Why? You’re divorced. What do you care who he spends time with?”
“It’s not about that. It’s about…” I reach for words, but they’re all too embarrassing, too confessional. “Don’t you care?” I say instead.
He’s silent the length of two steps, then as we reach the last stretch of flat concrete, says, “I care that my daughter spent the night here, instead of in her home, in her own bed, which is where she’s supposed to be, since I moved out and let her mother keep the place so she could have that ‘continuity.’ ”
“Oh.” I bite my lip. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”
He sighs. “I pried first. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right.” We’ve slowed to a stop, standing nearly shoulder to shoulder, our gazes fixed on the house.
A sudden wind picks up and wipes away the heavy, claustrophobic mugginess.
As the breeze curls around us, I let out a steadying breath and glance over at him.
“Maybe this is selfish,” I say, “because I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, but…
it’s kind of nice to find someone else who’s as not-okay as me. ”
His eyes meet mine. “Yeah,” he says. “It is.”
“Selfish?” I ask. “Or nice?”
The breath he huffs out sounds like it wants to be a laugh but can’t quite muster the will. “Nice,” he tells me.
Our gazes hold for a moment, silence settling between us. Then, he says quietly, “I’m Alex, by the way. Alex Bruscato.”
My own not-quite-smile tugs at my mouth. I wish it didn’t make it so obvious, how miserable I am. But it still feels better than plastering on a lie. “Thea Meyer.”
His eyes narrow a little, scouring my face. “You… seem familiar.”
“So do you,” I tell him.
An almost wariness comes over his expression, like he’s bracing himself, waiting for me to say more. I have nothing else to say though, and after a beat of awkward silence, he seems to relax a little. “You from around here?” he asks.
“No, I just moved here three years ago. I grew up in St. Louis,” I tell him, then add, “well, a St. Louis suburb. Webster Groves.”
“Hmm.” He frowns as he lifts his ball cap from his head and scrapes back dark loose curls of hair.
That’s when I recognize him. “Mia’s dad!”
The frown deepens as he tugs his hat back on, this time with the brim in front. “How do you know that?”
Slowly, I lift my hands, pointers up, then start to sing, “I am here and you are here—”
“Wait.” Alex’s eyes widen. “StoryTime at The Bookshop?”
I drop my hands. “Yep.”
He’s staring at me, brow furrowed.
“I know. I don’t look like the perky, smiley bookseller you’ve brought your kid to for StoryTime. But I promise it’s me.”
He clears his throat, looking guilty. “I didn’t say that.”
“This,” I tell him, drawing a circle with my finger around his face, “very much did.”
“Listen,” he says, “you didn’t recognize me at first, either. It’s not like I look too ‘perky’ myself.”
The sound of the front door banging open makes both of us glance over our shoulders.
“Daddy!” Mia yells from the porch, hopping up and down. She’s in rainbow-striped pajamas, and her dark, wavy hair is poking out in every direction. “Come hug me, Daddy!” she yells. She waves her arms, still hopping. “Hurry up!”
“Hi, Sunshine,” he tells her. “I’m coming.”
Argos barrels out onto the porch behind Mia in a frenzy of manic tail wags and loud whines.
“Easy, pup,” I tell him. “I’m coming.”
Alex and I briskly walk the flat stretch of concrete toward the last five steps leading up to the porch. And then we both come to a stop when our exes make their entrance.
I now recognize the woman standing beside Ethan from the few StoryTime visits she made with Mia—Jen, Alex called her.
She’s beautiful. Petite, hourglass curves, sky-blue eyes, honey-blond hair swept into an artfully messy bun.
She’s rocking skin-tight bike shorts better than I ever could and swimming in one of Ethan’s WashU T-shirts.
My brain snags on that last detail, but I tear it away with a rip, dragging my focus to Ethan.
My ex-husband is in lounge clothes, too.
His normally pale cheeks are flushed, his light-brown hair mussed as if hands have tousled it.
I used to think he had such handsome soft brown eyes; now I just notice they’re avoiding mine.
Alex crouches as Mia rushes down the stairs, right into his waiting arms, at the same time that Argos loses the battle with his obedience training and barrels down the steps into my knees.
I bend to hug him, lavished with licks to my chin and cheeks in greeting.
I wrap my arms around him and squeeze, burying my face in his neck. I missed him so much.
“You’re late,” Jen says to Alex.
“Sorry,” he tells her, eyes on his daughter as she shows him a painted pebble in her hand. “Construction traffic. I texted to let you know.”
Mia glances my way, and her midnight-blue eyes go wide. “Miss Thea!” She waves up at me. “Hi!”
I smile down at her. “Hi, Mia. I like your pajamas.”
“Thanks,” she says. “I wore them all day.”
“Nothing better than a pajama day,” I tell her.
“Mommy says I can’t wear them to preschool, though.”
“Well,” I say, trying to be diplomatic, “that… makes sense.”
Mia huffs like she thinks it really doesn’t.
It makes me smile. Alex smiles, too.
“So,” Jen says. She tugs at the hem of Ethan’s shirt that she’s wearing, glancing between Alex and me. “You two… know each other?”
For a second, I’m thrown by her question, but then I consider what this must look like to her: Alex and I showed up at the same time. We’re standing, albeit unintentionally, quite close, as if banded together. Mia knows me and was happy to see me.
“Sure seems like it,” Ethan says. His eyes are fixed on Alex.
He has yet to look at me. “Judging by the fact that the Ring camera showed you two being all chummy out here for ten minutes before you made it to the door.” Ethan adds, still locked in on Alex, “Just think. If you hadn’t been out here wasting time, you wouldn’t have been nearly as late to get your daughter. ”
Alex stands from where he’s been crouched with Mia. His eyes are hard.
My gaze ping-pongs between Alex, Ethan, and Jen. Tension thickens the air. I peer down at Mia, glancing between the adults surrounding her, her little face drawn tight with anxiety. My heart twists.
I know, down the road, I’m going to look back on this moment and have to admit that I wasn’t solely motivated by my desire to protect Mia.
I’m angry at Ethan for his rude, manchild behavior.
My pride is wounded that I’m standing in front of my ex and a beautiful woman he’s obviously already tumbled into bed with, while I look like a disheveled hedgehog in worn-out Birkenstocks who’s been crying for the better part of the last twenty-four hours.
And I feel an odd sense of camaraderie with Alex, whose life, much like mine, seems squarely in dumpster-fire territory.
Before I can think better of it, I do the first thing that comes to mind—I tell a story. In other words, a big old lie.
“Yes,” I say to everyone, “we do know each other. Alex and I are actually friends.” I fumble for a beat then add, “Old friends.”
Everyone’s focus snaps my way.
“What?” Jen says.
Ethan’s eyes narrow as they finally land on me. “Old friends?”
I glance at Alex, who’s staring at me, one eyebrow arched. What are you up to? his expression says.
With my wide-eyed look of panic, I tell him, Hell if I know.
A sly smile curves at the edge of his mouth.
“It’s true.” He glances toward Jen and Ethan.
“I met Thea when we were teens,” he fibs smoothly.
“In the parking lot outside Busch Stadium. A tailgate for the Cards-Buccos game when we stopped in St. Louis on the Bruscato-family road trip.” He glances back at me and grins. “We hit it off right away.”
I’m a pretty bad liar, even worse at thinking on my feet.
If I’d read fewer books, this is when I’d botch this ridiculous, snowballing deception.
But I’ve read a lot of books, so I pull from one of the many stories I’ve loved and add, “Instant friendship. Pen pals for years. This guy,” I tell Ethan and Jen, “can write a letter.”
Jen slips a little closer to Ethan. Ethan’s got his hands shoved in his sweatpants’ pockets. His jaw is clenched, his eyes hard.
“We lost touch over the years,” I explain. “You know how life goes.” Smiling down at Mia, then up at Alex, I say, “Until these two walked into StoryTime at The Bookshop.”
I’ve conveniently left out when that first visit to StoryTime happened because adrenaline’s wiped my memory.
“I couldn’t believe it who it was!” I tell them. Clasping Alex’s hand, I squeeze. My breath catches when he squeezes back, his hand, warm and solid, wrapped around mine. “It was Alex, my long-lost friend.”
Alex tugs me close and says, “Aw, Ted.”
I bounce into him and blink, surprised by the maneuver, wondering who Ted is. Then I realize that’s what he’s calling me.
“No need to downplay it,” Alex murmurs, still loud enough for Jen and Ethan to hear. “Just old friends?” He glances their way and grins. “We were each other’s first love.”