Chapter 42 Adela
My hair is down the way Cody likes it. I added extra blush to hide my real blush, and my clothes are designer. I deliberately picked out something that makes me look hot, but it’s hard to take off.
I need some normalcy, like something to make me feel like the girl I once was. So I pull out my phone, hold it at arm's length, and take a picture. I look like a girl going on a date with her boyfriend. Excited. A little nervous in a good way.
I sent it to Maeve.
Hot date with Cody tonight.
The response comes in eleven seconds.
Three fire emojis. HE IS SO LUCKY. Call me after.
Obviously.
I put my phone in my bag and look at myself one more time.
The face is on. The seams are invisible.
I pick up my keys.
The drive to Judge Ravenshaw's house takes twenty-two minutes.
I've made this drive dozens of times from the opposite direction. Tonight I’m using my GPS like a lost city girl. What I don’t expect is for the gate to open as soon as I pull up.
I look at the button I would have pressed, and have pressed many times, and then I pull up the driveway.
The gravel crunches under my tires the same way it always has. The hedges are trimmed the same way. The house sits at the end of the drive, and standing there is Cody.
He looks good. Really good. Better than the hospital, better than I expected. He’s filled back out, and his eyes are gleaming at me through the windshield like I’m the only girl in the world. I used to love that feeling, but now it makes me feel worse.
He opens my door for me, letting me park right in front.
And his face tells me that I did well with my hair, makeup, and outfit.
His eyes travel down my body, and my heart spikes.
I used to reach for this feeling, and now I don’t know where to place it.
He’s looking at me like I’m the moon rising in the sky.
“Baby,” he mutters, twirling me –– another gesture I used to feel giddy about. I hide my nerves and turn under his arm. He pulls me and hovers his lips above mine, staring into my eyes.
My heart races when his hand reaches up and brushes my hair back.
“I’ve missed you.”
I know that tone. He’s missed me, sure, but I know he’s growing hard in his pants right now. He’s missed my body in ways I cannot give to him tonight.
But I smile, staring back at him because I feel the chemistry low in my belly. There’s no denying how attractive this man is. “I missed you, too.”
His mouth is still near mine as he whispers, “I don’t want another week to go by without seeing you.”
Those words and that tone flow through my body like adrenaline. My heart beats faster, I feel more alive, like danger and excitement are knotting together. I pull back slightly, the intensity of him was something I’ve forgotten. He’s passionate and always has been.
“You feel healthy,” I murmur because I’m holding onto his arms and feel the muscle beneath my fingers. “It’s good to see you vertical.”
That makes him smile. His eyes sparkle under the dim light. My heart skips a beat. It’s going to be a long night denying what’s always been real between us. It’s always been physical with Cody from the very beginning. I used to think it was just me, but now I know better.
“Come. Dinner’s waiting.”
He holds my hands, walking backwards into the house. And then he drops an arm, turns around, and pulls me through the foyer.
My heart aches as he pulls me through the house I thought I’d never step foot in again.
Don’t cry.
Don’t cry.
Don’t cry.
I’m crying.
Cody’s hand is warm in mine, and his hair falls in a fresh cut. I didn’t think I would experience him ever again, and now I’m crying because I’m forced to pretend. I’m holding his hand when I know he’s cheated on me. How long am I going to keep up this act?
He turns around, and his expression softens right before it hardens.
“Adela,” he whispers, pulling me into a hug. “It’s okay.”
I don’t whimper, don’t make a sound, but I let him hold me. I let him think it’s because he’s alive and well.
He cups my face into his hands and kisses my forehead. Then he’s drying my tears. “Ready to eat?”
I nod, halting the tears.
The dining room is the same as it's always been — dark wood, high ceilings, the portrait of Judge Ravenshaw's father above the fireplace that used to make me feel watched.
The table is set for two, the way it's been set for two before, on the anniversaries, on the nights Cody wanted to do something that felt significant.
Candles. Good China. The wine is already open.
I sit in the chair he pulls out for me in my usual spot, the one on the left, the one I've sat in so many times before. I feel myself shiver.
He sits across from me and pours the wine. He looks at me with those familiar eyes, and something in my stomach turns over.
"To being alive," he says.
I lift my glass. "To being alive."
We drink.
"Okay." He sets his glass down and leans forward, elbows on the table. "Tell me everything. Everything I missed. My dad’s not here to breathe down your neck about my health. I need the real version, not the hospital version."
I laugh a little. "The hospital version was the real version."
"You were performing for my dad."
"I was not."
"Adela." He gives me the look. "I know you."
Something moves through me at that. I have to cheer this conversation up; otherwise, the night’s not going to end well.
I reach for my glass. "Fine. The real version is that I cried a lot more than I admitted to, and I ate a truly embarrassing amount of takeout.
Maeve came, and we watched every season of a show I'm not going to tell you about because you'll judge me. "
The side of his mouth lifts. "Which show?"
"I'm not telling you."
"Tell me."
"Absolutely not."
He grins. There it is — the real one, the one that was always the best version of his face, unguarded and bright and exactly like the boy I fell in love with. "Was it the one with the British people and the baking?"
"I will end this dinner right now."
He laughs, reaches across the table, and covers my hand with his, and the laugh fades into something warmer. His thumb moves across my knuckles. "I'm glad you had Maeve."
"She’s a lifesaver, truly."
"I hated that you were alone for any of it."
"I wasn't alone the whole time." I keep my voice easy. "Friends came. People checked in."
He nods. His thumb keeps moving. "You seem good, though. Really good." He tilts his head. "Different."
"I’m only good…now." I nod, keeping our eye contact.
"Tell me about the job," he says.
I take a breath. "There's not much to tell. A coffee shop near campus. Mornings mostly."
"Adela."
I sip my wine and lift a brow.
"You don't need to work."
"I know I don't need to." I meet his eyes. "I want to. It makes me feel—" I pause, choosing. "Grounded."
He looks at me for a long moment.
"I don't love it," he says.
"I know."
"But if it makes you happy."
"It does,” I sing.
He exhales through his nose, conceding. Not because he agrees but because he's decided not to fight it tonight. I’m glad to know I still have some power over him.
"Okay," he says finally.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me." He squeezes my hand. "Just go home when your shift ends. Don't be somewhere I can't find you."
The words land sharply, but I smile at him anyway. "I live on campus. I'm never hard to find."
The food is good, as it always is in this house.
The conversation finds its rhythm the way it used to — easy, warm.
We’re just two people who have known each other long enough to have our own language.
He tells me about physical therapy, about some of the team coming to visit, about a book his father left in his room during recovery that he actually read because there was nothing else to do.
"You read a whole book," I say.
"Don't make it weird."
"I'm not making it weird, I'm celebrating."
"It was three hundred pages."
"Cody.” I lift my brows. “That's a book."
He glares at me.
And I laugh.
For a few minutes, it is simply just us like it always was. Our relationship was always easy, fun, and enjoyable. We have two years of real history, and that doesn't disappear because of what I know now. The candles burn lower. The wine does what wine does. The room feels warmer than it should.
This is what makes it hard.
Not the performance. The parts that don't require performing.
He refills my glass without asking because he always has.
He remembers that I don't like the bread from the basket, but I’ll eat it because I like the butter.
He pushes the butter dish toward me without me saying anything.
He tells the story about Julian at a bonfire in September and pauses at the inside joke I know he’s about to tell.
He points at me like yes, exactly what I’m thinking.
And we laugh. My cheeks burn from laughing so hard.
I love him.
It’s so ridiculous, but I can’t help it. I observe his smile, the ease he feels around me, and I know he loves me, too.
Even if my chest feels heavy and terrible, it’s true.
This is complicated. I want to hold him accountable for what he did –– whatever it was exactly.
I have no proof that it even happened. The videos of him flash in my mind, and I quickly push the thoughts away, continuing the conversation like I’m totally fine.
But I’m not, so I pick up my wine glass, and I drink.
Not the way I loved him before. Not the uncomplicated way. The complicated way. The way that accounts for what he is and what he did, and still arrives at love anyway, and I don't know what to do with that, so I pick up my wine glass, and I drink.
After dinner, he leads me to the sitting room where he builds a fire in the fireplace.
He adds the wood and lights it. His grandfather taught him the trick to it, and he’s lit one for me nearly every night I’ve come here.
I sit on the couch, watching him, and think about how many times I've watched him do exactly this.