Chapter 4 #2
"I should have left him a long time ago, but…well, that's a whole other conversation. Go to work, Fee. I'll see you later."
"Will you?"
I nod. "I owe Cole a very long, very heavy conversation. I'm sure it'll take a few days for us to find the time…and the courage, in my case."
"Courage is one thing you never lacked, Lace."
I snort. "Yeah, well, I'm not the girl you used to know. Not anymore. Not for a long, long time."
"If you're still the same person you were in high school, I'd have some questions." He steps out, waving. "See ya 'round, then, Lacey." He pauses, eying my face. “Get that packing out of your nose.”
"I will. Bye, Fee."
And I'm alone again. I make the bed I slept in and then make sure there's no other trace of my having been here.
I grab a suitcase from my car, change into a clean outfit—tight black jeans with a thick heather gray Vineyard Vines crewneck sweatshirt over a black camisole, thick wool socks, and sensible boots—a far more appropriate outfit for a Northern Michigan winter than the fancy Country Club bullshit I was wearing yesterday.
It's funny how I've only been back up here for less than twelve hours and I already feel more like the old version of Lacey Grey than I have in years.
Lacey Fascinelli is in the rear view for good, I think, and thank god for that, at least.
I re-pack my suitcase, stow it in my car, and head back downtown to find Chelsea and get the packing removed from my nose, and then drive to The Good Egg—a cute little cafe with an adorable outdoor eating space, now closed for the winter, obviously—the indoor dining room is bustling at eight in the morning, every table full, chatter filling the room, the scents of coffee and syrup wafting and drifting.
There's a single open seat at the bar, and I take it, hooking my purse on the back of my chair.
I order coffee from the pretty, young waitress, perusing the menu while I sip—I decide on the stuffed French toast after seeing a plate of it pass by on its way to another table.
I realize only now, as the waitress brings me my food, that I never ate last night, and that I haven't had a meal since yesterday morning. I force myself to eat slowly, savoring each bite, each sip of coffee. Nonetheless, despite my best efforts, I clean the plate in record time.
It's weird not having my phone. I feel naked without it.
While I was waiting for my food, I went to check it at least ten times—patted my pocket, went for the side pocket of my MZ Wallace Sutton Medium.
I left it with my rings, as another form of protest. I didn't want him to be able to get a hold of me or track me with it, and I know for a fact he has tracking software on it.
The first thing I did after leaving the house was to stop at one of those buy-here-pay-here phone places and bought a cheap off-brand dumb phone for emergencies.
My mother has had the same cell phone number since cell phones became a thing, and hers is the only one I have memorized.
If I were to get arrested, I couldn't even call my husband—ex-husband.
God, that feels good.
The phone I bought isn't even a smartphone. No social media apps, no email, no music, just T9 SMS messaging and phone calls.
And to be totally honest, as weird and disorienting as it is, it's also kind of freeing.
I don't have to post anything on my Instagram, which is carefully curated to showcase my life as Eddie's trophy wife in the best light.
Fuck that.
No endless TikTok reels to consume every spare second.
No Facebook memories reminding me of the endless fucking galas and business dinners and fundraisers with Eddie.
No emails to check.
No constantly pinging group chats with the snooty rich bitches of Bloomfield Hills who get together for brunch every Sunday and bitch about their husbands in the chat all day.
It's a relief, to be perfectly transparent. I'm away from it all.
And…I'm never going back. I don't know that I'll stay in Three Rivers, but I'm sure as hell not going back down there.
I don't know what I'll do with my life, now. Restart my dead-on-arrival legal career, maybe. Somewhere. Somehow.
I don't know.
I suppose for now I need to focus on settling things to some degree with Cole. I know it's why I came up here, subconsciously.
For the last fifteen years, I've had the burden of guilt, shame, and regret weighing on my shoulders, bubbling and simmering endlessly in my belly.
I can't move forward with anything like a life until I resolve things with him; I just don't know how. It's too much, too big, too old, and too heavy. The weight of secrets is crushing my soul.
I desperately need to unburden myself of it all, but Cole…
the secret I've carried will upend his whole fucking life.
And I just don't want to do that, especially after what Felix told me about his parents both dying so close together and so close on the heels of my abandoning him.
I destroyed his life once. And now I have to do it all over again.
I finish my breakfast, pay the bill—I'm gonna have to sell some jewelry soon to cover my living expenses until the alimony from Eddie starts coming, at least, or I get a job.
Shit, maybe I should just get a job. Answer phones or something.
I'm sure if I begged, Felix would put me to work somehow.
I stare out the window—it's a bright, beautiful winter day, the sun glittering on the thin dusting of fresh snow that fell last night or early this morning.
A sheriff's department SUV trundles slowly past, and I catch a quick glimpse of Cole's strong, handsome profile.
He's wearing a winter hat, his jaw is stubbled, and his expression, in the brief glimpse, is troubled.
As if the weight of the world is on his shoulders. Or, at least, the weight of too many questions and not enough answers.
I finish the last of my coffee and accept another to go, and then head out to see Mrs. Camila Reynolds about a room in her B-and-B.
Yet as I go about my day, my mind keeps going back to Cole.
To the anger simmering under his placid, charming surface, the hurt and the confusion—things I put there.
I also think about his bearded jawline. The size of his arms in his sleeves. The messy sweep of golden hair on his brow.
I used to love touching his jawline when he had stubble. I liked the way it felt. Especially when that stubble rubbed the inside of my thighs as he—
No.
Nope.
Yet that's where my mind goes—how good it would feel now that it’s a beard. That, and all the things I have to say to him that I just don't know how to say.
I'll have to find the words, and I'll have to accept his reaction, no matter what it may be.
I expect him to hate me even more than he already does.
I've earned it, god knows.