July 2, Thursday
BY NINE a.m. I had successfully wrangled two teenagers out the door, fed the dog, and located my keys in the freezer (don't ask), so naturally the universe decided I'd earned a small treat: an box sitting on my front steps with WARREN GOOD printed on the label in friendly font, as if and I were old friends keeping tabs on my ex-husband's online shopping habits.
I picked it up, weighed it in my hands—it was suspiciously light. Then I texted him a photo.
Package for you. Want to pick it up next time you get the kids?
His reply came back faster than anything involving our children ever did. Can you drop it by the dealership? In meetings all day and I need it.
I stood there a moment, weighing the alternative: Warren at my door this evening, possibly noting that the hedges needed trimming, like he still lived here and had opinions.
Fine, I texted back.
By the time I'd hit the grocery store for the things we were out of, the warehouse club for the things we weren't out of yet but would be by Tuesday, and the pharmacy for Josh's allergy refill—because nothing says summer fun like a kid who can't breathe near grass—my SUV looked like the back room of a Costco had given birth.
I wedged Warren's mystery box between a forty-pound bag of dog food and a flat of toilet paper and pointed the car toward the dealership.
I texted him from the parking lot. I'm here. Front parking lot.
Warren's dealership sells the kind of cars that cost more than some people's houses. In his reserved spot—the one with the little brass plate—sat a brand-new cherry-red convertible.
I sat there a second before getting out, doing the thing I do now, which is take one breath and remind myself I don't have to feel anything about this man anymore.
Then I wondered, completely unhelpfully, when exactly we'd stopped loving each other.
Was there a specific day? A Tuesday, maybe?
Did I miss it because I was folding laundry?
Warren came out wearing a trendy snug-fitting suit and sporting a new haircut.
"Hey." He was already glancing at his phone. "Thanks for this."
"We missed family therapy last night," I said.
"Josh wanted to watch the game—having the FIFA games in town is a once-in-a-lifetime event." Then he frowned. "Honestly, that whole therapy thing's bullshit anyway."
I handed him the box. "Please don't say that in front of the kids. We agreed to it, you know."
Ignoring me, he tore open the box and smiled. "Smart glasses. New model—not even out yet. Guy here got me on the list."
I pursed my mouth. "You said it was something you needed."
"It is," he said easily.
"I see you got a new car."
"That's the one I always wanted."
"I remember," I said. "Good for you."
He looked at me as if trying to decide if I was being snarky. "Thanks. So what's new with you?" he asked.
"I've been job hunting, actually."
Warren laughed. An actual laugh, head back and everything. "Good luck with that. You're not qualified to do anything, Iz."
"Please don't call me that." The word "anymore" hung in the air.
But I was drowned out by the ring of his phone. "Gotta take this," he said. "See you later." He walked away, already absorbed in his conversation, which from his wolfish grin, looked to be personal.
I rolled up the window and sat in my dog-food-scented SUV, blinking hard at the steering wheel.
Not qualified to do anything.
Warren was wrong about a lot of things over the years—the popularity of hybrid cars, the viability of NFTs, the fact that he looked good in a mustache.
But this time, I worried he was right.