29. Rhodes
— ? —
Rhodes
I give her space.
It’s the hardest thing I’ve done since landing in Boston, and that includes learning my son’s name for the first time.
But Maren asked for distance, even if she didn’t use those words, and I’ve spent too many years ignoring what she needed.
So I show up for Rowan. I leave after bedtime.
I keep our conversations focused on logistics, pickup times, nap schedules, the Livingston House opening.
She notices immediately.
I see it in the way her eyes track me when I’m not looking. The way she hovers near the kitchen like she’s waiting for me to suggest staying. The way she mentions, casually, that she made extra dinner, if I’m hungry.
I’m always hungry.
But I smile, thank her, and head for the door anyway.
It’s driving her insane. I can tell. And I hate that some small, petty part of me is satisfied by that, satisfied that my absence registers, that she feels it.
Because I feel hers every second I’m not there.
The Livingston House opening is on a Saturday, which means I spend the morning in my hotel room pretending to review my remarks while actually staring at my phone.
No messages from Maren.
One from Barrett confirming logistics. Three from people who want to “discuss strategy” at the event, which means they want to corner me about the expansion timeline. One from my mother, which I set aside to answer later.
She’s been checking in more often lately. Nothing urgent, just a mother who can tell something in her son’s life has shifted.
I shower, put on the charcoal suit, tie my tie three times before I get it right.
At four o’clock, I walk into Livingston House.
And stop breathing.
The atrium is transformed. Maren’s work, I know it’s hers, can see her fingerprints in every detail, cascades from the restored chandeliers in sweeping arrangements of burgundy and cream.
The historic moldings frame explosions of greenery.
The grand staircase is lined with candles and low arrangements that make the whole space feel like something out of a dream.
It’s not just beautiful. It’s her. Bold and structured and unexpectedly soft, all the things Maren is when she lets herself be.
Patricia appears at my elbow. “The florist outdid herself.”
“Yes.”
“We’ve already had three event planners ask for her contact information. And we’re not even open yet.”
I nod, still staring at the arrangements. “Good.”
Patricia gives me a look, the same look she’s been giving me for weeks, like she’s trying to solve a puzzle she doesn’t have all the pieces for, but she doesn’t push.
“Doors open in an hour,” she says. “You ready?”
“Yeah.”
I’m not. But I’ll pretend.
The event is a success by any metric that matters.
The venue fills with exactly the kind of people Barrett invited: event planners and Boston society.
The catering is impeccable, the restored details draw constant admiration.
I shake hands, accept congratulations, and perform the version of myself that closes deals and builds empires.
I do it on autopilot.
Because Maren is here.
She arrived with Camila and Sofia an hour before the doors opened, adjusting arrangements and directing last-minute changes. She’s wearing a deep green dress that makes her skin glow under the chandelier light. Her hair is down. She’s laughing at something Jamie said.
I haven’t seen her laugh like that in weeks.
Every time I catch myself staring, I force my eyes away. Find another guest to charm. Another hand to shake.
But I’m tracking her like a compass finding north. I can’t help it.
Around eight o’clock, Barrett nudges me toward the stage. “Time for remarks.”
Right. My speech. I wrote it three weeks ago. Something about historic preservation and community investment and the company’s commitment to Boston.
I step up to the microphone.
“Thank you all for being here tonight.”
The crowd quiets. I see Maren near the back, half-hidden behind a pillar, arms crossed. Watching.
“Livingston House has stood in this location for over a hundred years,” I begin.
“It’s survived fires, neglect, and nearly being demolished twice.
The fact that we’re standing here tonight, in a space that’s been restored rather than replaced, is a testament to the people who refused to let it disappear. ”
The words feel hollow in my mouth. True, but hollow. I’m saying what I’m supposed to say.
“I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the partners who made tonight possible.
” I name the architects. The preservation consultants.
The contractors. “And I’d like to particularly thank Bellamy Blooms Boston, whose stunning floral design has transformed this space into something I couldn’t have imagined.
Maren Bellamy and her team have given this building the welcome it deserves. ”
I keep it simple. I move on.
I see Maren stiffen. She was braced for something, a grand gesture, maybe. A public apology. Some performance designed to position myself as the reformed hero.
But I just keep talking. History of the building, plans for the future, community impact.
When I finish, the applause is polite and generous. I shake more hands. Accept more congratulations. Work the room like the operator my mother raised me to be.
But I feel Maren’s eyes on me the whole time.
The last guests leave around eleven. The caterers pack up. Barrett does a final walkthrough and declares the evening a success before heading out.
I stay.
Checking on the space, I tell myself. Making sure nothing’s out of place. But really, I’m waiting.
I’m folding down the legs of a cocktail table when I hear her heels on the marble floor.
“You’re still here.”
I look up. Maren is standing in the atrium doorway, her jacket over her arm, keys in her hand. She looks tired and beautiful and wary.
“Someone has to fold the tables.”
“Pretty sure that’s what the rental company is for.”
“They’re not coming until tomorrow morning.” I fold another leg. “Figured I’d get a head start.”
She watches me work for a moment. Then, without saying anything, she sets down her jacket and keys and walks over to the next table.
We fold in silence for a few minutes. The click and clack of metal, the soft shuffle of our feet, the distant hum of the city outside.
“You kept it simple,” she says finally.
“What?”
“The speech. When you mentioned the flowers.” She doesn’t look at me. “I was waiting for the other shoe. Some big moment.”
“Would you have wanted that?”
“No.”
“Then why would I do it?”
She goes still. I keep folding.
“I wasn’t going to turn recognition you earned into another story about myself,” I say.
Maren makes a sound, something between a laugh and a scoff. “Since when?”
“Since I noticed you never wanted the spotlight. You wanted me to see the work. That’s different.”
She’s quiet for so long I think she’s going to leave. But when I finally look up, she’s standing by the folded tables, arms wrapped around herself, staring at me like I’m a code she can’t crack.
“You’ve been pulling away,” she says.
“You asked me to.”
“I didn’t-” She stops. Tries again. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“What’s this?”
“You showing up. Doing exactly what you’re supposed to do. Being perfect with Rowan and respectful with me and leaving every night like you can’t wait to be gone.” Her voice rises. “I asked you not to push. I didn’t ask you to act like you don’t want me anymore.”
The words hit square in the chest and stay there.
I set down the table leg I’m holding. Take a breath. Let it out slowly.
“Maren.”
“What?”
“Wanting you has never been the problem.”
She goes still.
“I’ve been staying away,” I continue, and my voice sounds raw even to my own ears, “because every time I get close, you pull me in. And then you punish me for coming.”
“I don’t-”
“You do. And I get it, I do. I gave you a thousand reasons not to trust me. But I can’t keep standing in your kitchen wanting to kiss you, and then watching you look at me like I’m a mistake you’re about to make again.
” I take a step toward her. “So I stopped lingering. I stopped hovering. I gave you exactly what you asked for.”
“I didn’t know what I was asking for.”
“I know. But I’m trying to let you figure that out without pressure. Because if something happens between us-” I stop. Swallow. “I won’t survive losing you twice, Maren. I won’t.”
The atrium is quiet, the candles burned low on the staircase, the flowers she designed filling the air with something sweet and green and alive.
She’s looking at me like I’ve ripped something open. Like she’s seeing past all the walls and defenses and careful distance.
“I keep waiting for you to be the old you,” she whispers. “I keep waiting for the version of you that broke me. And when he doesn’t show up, I don’t know where that leaves me.”
“I can’t promise he’s gone forever.”
“I know.”
“I can only promise I’ll catch it faster now. That I’ll tell you when I’m slipping. That I won’t make you wait in the dark wondering if I’m ever coming home.”
She takes a step toward me. Then another.
We’re standing where we stood three weeks ago, too close, breathing the same air, the whole weight of our history pressing down.
“I’m terrified,” she says.
“I know.”
“Wanting you again feels like losing.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know how to stop.”
Her hand comes up to my chest. Presses flat over my heart. I can feel it pounding against her palm.
“Don’t,” I say.
She goes still.
I force the next words out. “Then talk to me. Tell me what you want. Because I can’t, I can’t be the one to push this time. I won’t.”
She looks at me. Studies my face. Whatever she’s looking for, she must find it.
“I know exactly what I’m doing,” she says.
And she kisses me.
It’s not soft. It’s not tentative. She kisses me like she’s angry about it, like she’s been holding this back for four years and the dam just broke.
I kiss her back the same way.
My hands find her waist, her hair, the curve of her spine. She’s making sounds against my mouth, frustrated, wanting, alive, and I’m drinking them in like I’ve been dying of thirst.
“Rhodes-”