15. Audrey
— ? —
Audrey
The text from Griffith comes on a Thursday afternoon.
My sister found a listing she thinks you’d love. Any interest in grabbing dinner to discuss? No pressure - just information.
I stare at the message for a long time.
It’s been three weeks since we talked at the Harbor Bistro. Three weeks of cramped rental living and careful proximity and slow, painful progress with Rowan. We’re not fixed - we might never be fixed - but we’re trying. That has to count for something.
So why am I considering saying yes?
I tell myself it’s just dinner. Just information. Griffith is kind and he’s offered help and there’s nothing wrong with exploring options.
I don’t tell Rowan where I’m going.
The restaurant Griffith chooses isn’t the Harbor Bistro - it’s a small Italian place in the next town over, quiet and dimly lit. Far enough from Miller’s Point that I’m unlikely to run into anyone I know.
That should probably tell me something.
He’s already seated when I arrive, standing when he sees me approach. No hug, no kiss on the cheek - just a warm smile and a gesture toward the chair across from him.
“Thanks for coming,” he says. “I know it’s a bit of a drive.”
“I needed to get out of Miller’s Point for a few hours anyway.”
“That bad?”
“Just... small. Everyone knows everyone’s business.”
“The blessing and the curse of small-town life.” He signals the waiter. “Wine? Or are you driving?”
“One glass won’t hurt.”
He orders a bottle of something Italian that I’ve never heard of, and we settle into the easy small talk of two people who don’t know each other well enough to skip the pleasantries. How’s Lily doing in school. How’s the rental holding up. How’s the insurance claim progressing.
I notice he doesn’t ask about Rowan. Not once.
“So,” he says finally, pulling a folder from his bag. “My sister Sarah. She’s been in Portland real estate for fifteen years - knows the market inside and out. When I mentioned your situation, she got a little obsessive.”
“That’s very kind of her.”
“That’s Sarah. She doesn’t do anything halfway.” He opens the folder, slides it across the table. “This is the listing she thinks would be perfect.”
I look down at the photos. A three-bedroom colonial on a tree-lined street. Hardwood floors, updated kitchen, a backyard with a swing set already installed. The price is reasonable - more than reasonable for Portland.
“The school district is excellent,” Griffith continues. “Top-rated elementary, and the middle school feeds into one of the best high schools in the state. It’s about ten minutes from downtown, close to parks, family-friendly neighborhood.”
“It’s beautiful,” I admit.
“Sarah said she could get you in to see it this weekend, if you’re interested. No commitment - just a look.”
I flip through the pages. Floor plans. Neighborhood statistics. Photos of the nearby playground, the local library, a farmers’ market that runs every Saturday.
It’s a whole life laid out in front of me. A new life. A fresh start.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask quietly.
Griffith sets down his wine glass. “Doing what?”
“Helping me. You barely know me.”
“I know enough.” He meets my eyes, and there’s something open in his expression, something unguarded.
“I know what it’s like to stay in a situation that’s hurting you because you can’t see a way out.
My marriage-” He stops, shakes his head.
“That’s not important. What’s important is that everyone deserves options. ”
“You keep saying that. Options.”
“Because it’s true. You can stay in Miller’s Point. You can work things out with your husband. But you should know that’s a choice, not an inevitability.” He leans forward slightly. “You get to decide what your life looks like, Audrey. No one else.”
I think about Rowan. About the hand-holding during the storm. About the keepsake box and the hospital bracelet and the pressed flower he kept in his nightstand for nine years.
About the three months of messages to another woman. About the words for five minutes, I didn’t feel like a disappointment.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
“It always is.” Griffith sits back. “I’m not trying to talk you into anything. I’m just trying to make sure you know all your options.”
“And if one of those options is staying?”
“Then you stay. And I’ll be here if you ever need a friend.”
A friend. Is that what this is?
I study him across the table - this kind, divorced, uncomplicated man who looks at me like I’m worth looking at. Who listens when I talk. Who doesn’t carry three months of betrayal between us like a weight.
It would be so easy to want this instead.
The food arrives. We eat, we talk, we carefully avoid any topic that might push beyond friendship. He tells me about the restaurant, about his daughter who lives with his ex-wife in Boston, about the cooking class he’s been taking because he got tired of eating his own mediocre food.
I find myself laughing. Actually laughing, not the forced version I’ve been producing for weeks.
“You should do that more often,” he says.
“Do what?”
“Laugh. You have a good laugh.”
“I used to laugh more.” The admission comes out before I can stop it. “Before everything.”
“You will again.” He says it with quiet confidence. “Whatever happens - staying, leaving, something in between - you’re going to be okay, Audrey. I can tell.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because you’re here. Because you’re exploring options instead of just accepting whatever hand you’ve been dealt.” He smiles. “That takes courage.”
Does it? Or does it just take desperation?
He pays the check before I can argue, waves off my protests with a casual “consider it a thank-you for the company.” At the door, he pauses.
“The offer stands,” he says. “Portland. The house. A fresh start. Sarah can show you around whenever you’re ready.”
“And if I’m never ready?”
“Then I’ll stop asking.” His eyes are warm on mine. “But something tells me you’re going to surprise yourself.”
He walks me to my car, doesn’t try to hug me goodbye. Just a smile, a small wave, and then I’m driving back to Miller’s Point with a folder full of Portland real estate on the passenger seat.
I don’t tell Rowan where I’ve been.
I don’t know how to explain something I don’t understand myself.