16. Freya
— ? —
Freya
Rex Waller, billionaire, was squeezed into a sticky vinyl booth, and he looked thrilled about it.
I’d chosen it on purpose. A test, maybe. To see if he could survive an evening without valet parking and cloth napkins.
He was not only surviving. He was beaming.
“This booth has character,” he said, running his hand along the cracked vinyl seat. “I think someone carved their initials into the table. Look. J.R. plus M.T., 1987.”
“You’re being weird about this.”
“I’m being appreciative.” He picked up the laminated menu and studied it with the same intensity he probably brought to merger documents. “They have a burger called the Heart Attack Special. I feel like that’s either very honest or a liability issue.”
“It’s delicious. The trick is to not think about what’s in it.”
“Noted.”
The waitress came by, a woman in her sixties with a name tag that said Dolores and a look that suggested she’d seen everything and was impressed by none of it. Without writing anything down, she took our orders, raised an eyebrow at Rex’s suit jacket, and disappeared into the kitchen.
“She hates me,” Rex said.
“She hates everyone. You know a place is good if they don’t give a shit about their customer’s opinion. It’s part of the charm.”
“This place has a lot of charm.”
“You keep saying that word. I don’t think it means what you think it means.”
He grinned, and something in my chest loosened.
This was easy. Easier than I’d expected.
The Rex sitting across from me wasn’t the distant husband who’d let his family walk all over me.
This was someone new. Someone who seemed genuinely delighted to be eating at a diner with sticky floors and bitter coffee.
Or maybe this was who he’d always been, underneath all the armor. Maybe I’d just never gotten close enough to see it.
“So,” he said, leaning back in the booth. “Tell me about your week. How are the kids?”
“The kids are great. Mia finally got her posting trot down. She’s been struggling with it for weeks, so that was a big win. And Tommy stopped being afraid of Juniper, which is progress because last month he cried every time she sneezed. And Isabel, as expected, dominates them all.”
Rex nodded along, his expression attentive. “Isabel has been braggy about that. Tommy’s the one with the red hair, right? His mom drives the minivan with all the soccer stickers?”
I stared at him. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve been sitting in that observation area for five days, Freya. I pay attention.”
“You put it in your notebook, didn’t you?”
His ears went pink. “Maybe.”
“You absolutely did. You have a whole section on my students.”
“I have a whole section on everything.” He shifted in his seat, looking embarrassed. “I told you. I’m taking notes. Learning.”
“What else is in there? Do you have my tea order memorized? My shoe size?”
“Earl Grey, splash of milk, no sugar. And you’re a seven and a half, but you buy eights because you hate when shoes pinch.”
I didn’t know whether to be touched or alarmed. “That’s either romantic or terrifying.”
“I’m hoping for romantic.”
“Jury’s still out.”
Dolores returned with our food, the Heart Attack Special for Rex and a bacon cheeseburger with extra pickles for me. She set down two mugs of coffee that looked like they’d been sitting on the burner since the Reagan administration.
“Pie’s fresh,” she said, which was apparently her version of small talk. “Pecan and apple. Don’t ask for cherry. We’re out.”
She shuffled away before either of us could respond.
“I like her,” Rex said, watching her go. “She has strong opinions.”
“You should see her when someone asks for ketchup on eggs.”
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The burger was perfect, greasy and messy and exactly what I needed. Across from me, Rex tackled the Heart Attack Special with a determination that suggested he was treating it like a business challenge.
“Okay,” he said eventually, setting down his burger. “I have to ask. How are you really doing? Not the polite answer. The real one.”
I chewed slowly, buying time. “I’m okay. Better than okay, actually. I love the job. Clara’s been amazing. I’m starting to feel like myself again.”
“But?”
“But what? Things are good.”
He watched me for a moment, and I got the sense he was holding back a dozen follow-up questions. Old Rex would have pushed. Would have insisted on knowing every detail, every feeling, every piece of information he could use to fix whatever he thought was broken.
This Rex just nodded. “I’m glad. You deserve good things.”
“You keep saying that too.”
“Because it’s true.”
I took a sip of the bitter coffee to cover the way my chest tightened. “What about you? How’s the ranch?”
“Empty.” The word came out raw. “Too quiet. I keep expecting to hear you singing in the kitchen or talking to Penny in the stables.” He stared into his mug. “I’ve been sleeping on your side of the bed. Is that pathetic? That feels pathetic.”
“It’s a little pathetic.”
“I knew it.” But he was smiling, and something about the honesty of the admission made me smile too. “The sheets don’t smell like you anymore. I might have stolen your shampoo from the bathroom before the housekeeper could throw it away.”
“Now that’s pathetic.”
“I’m aware.”
We both laughed, and it felt like something cracking open. Like maybe we could be people who laughed together instead of people who hurt each other.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” I said impulsively.
He raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Anything. Something real. We were married for a year and I feel like I only knew the surface stuff.”
Rex thought for a moment, his fingers tracing the edge of his coffee mug. “When I was twelve, I wanted to be a veterinarian. I used to sneak out to the stables at night and sleep with the horses because I liked them better than people.”
“What happened?”
“My father happened. Told me Wallers don’t become veterinarians. Wallers run empires.” He shrugged, but there was something heavy underneath the casual gesture. “I stopped sneaking out after that.”
“That’s sad.”
“It’s just how it was.” He looked up at me. “Your turn. Something I don’t know.”
“I used to write poetry. Terrible, angsty teenage poetry about unrequited love and the meaninglessness of existence. I had a whole notebook full of it.”
“Please tell me that notebook still exists.”
“It does not. I burned it in a ceremonial bonfire during sophomore year of college. Clara officiated. There was wine involved.”
“I would pay good money to read that poetry.”
“You couldn’t afford it.”
His laugh was loud and genuine, and a couple at the next booth turned to look at us. I didn’t care. For the first time in months, I felt light. Unburdened. Like maybe the weight I’d been carrying could be set down, just for a few hours.
We talked through two refills of terrible coffee.
He told me about the summer he broke his arm falling out of a tree and tried to hide it from his father for three days.
I told him about my mother’s garden, and how I used to help her plant tomatoes every spring.
He admitted he’d never seen any of the Lord of the Rings movies. I pretended to be scandalized.
“We’re doing a marathon,” I said. “All three extended editions. You don’t get a say in this.”
“That sounds like at least twelve hours of commitment.”
“Eleven hours and twenty-six minutes, actually. Plus bathroom breaks.”
“You’ve done this before.”
“Clara and I have a yearly tradition. You’re not allowed to judge.”
“I’m not judging. I’m impressed by the dedication.”
Dolores came by to clear our plates, and Rex ordered a slice of the pecan pie. “You want to split it?” he asked me.
“Get your own. I want the apple.”
He grinned. “Yes ma’am.”
The pie was perfect, warm and sweet and exactly right. We ate it slowly, stretching out the evening, neither of us seeming to want it to end. Outside the window, the parking lot had emptied. Mabel’s was about to close, and we were the last customers left.
When the check came, I grabbed it before Rex could react.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“My treat.” I slapped down enough cash to cover the bill plus a generous tip for Dolores. “So this doesn’t count as you throwing money around.”
He stared at me for a moment, and then a slow smile spread across his face. The real one, not the charming businessman version. The one that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and his whole face go soft.
“So it went well?” he asked. “The date?”
I should have been more guarded. I should have reminded him that one good night didn’t erase months of hurt, and kept my walls up and my heart protected.
Instead, I heard myself say, “Same time next week.”
His smile got even bigger. “Yeah?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. It’s already there.”
We walked out into the cool night air, and he opened my car door for me without making a big deal of it. Just a simple gesture, casual and easy.
“Hey,” I said before I got in. “Thank you. For tonight. For actually trying.”
“Thank you for letting me.”
I drove home with the windows down and the radio playing, feeling lighter than I had in months. One date. That was all I’d agreed to. One date, and if it went badly, he’d sign the papers and let me go.
It hadn’t gone badly.
And he was getting a second one.