After the Divorce, Married to the Quiet Billionaire Next Door

"What about that first love of yours?" I asked.

He went quiet. His hand came off the door panel and slid into his pocket, his shoulders sinking a little.

"Gone?" I asked again.

"She went back." His voice was faint, his eyes on the floor, the toe of his shoe scuffing the ground twice.

It was still that same pair of old leather shoes, the toes worn pale, nobody around to polish them anymore.

"Went back to her husband?"

Ethan's head snapped up, his eyes red. Not about to cry. Furious.

"Did you have someone dig into me a long time ago?"

"No need to dig. A man like you, who else would want you besides me?"

The words left my mouth and even I paused.

There was a time I didn't dare so much as breathe loudly in front of him. Whatever he said went. I didn't have the nerve to talk back.

Ethan stared at me for a long moment, his eyes rimmed red, his throat bobbing once.

"Joan, let's get remarried."

Someone walked past in the hallway, carrying a bag of groceries, the plastic rustling.

The motion-sensor light went out again. Ethan's face dimmed, then brightened a moment later.

"I won't be like that anymore," he said. "Saving money, wasn't that for this family too? That son of mine, I couldn't help it. She insisted on having him, what was I supposed to do? I—"

"When did it start with the two of you?"

"What?"

"I'm asking you. When did it start with you and Peggy Perry."

His lips trembled, but no words came out.

"It never ended, did it."

I said it flatly.

The corner of Ethan's mouth twitched. His face cycled through several expressions before settling on an ugly smile.

That smile hanging there was harder to watch than tears.

"Fine. You already know everything, so what are you even asking for?"

He said, "Back when I married you, it was because her family wouldn't agree to us. She married someone else, I lost heart, and I married whoever happened to be there. I admit it. I wronged you."

I listened to all of it and couldn't say what I felt.

"Are you done?"

"Joan—"

"If you're done, then go."

I pulled the door toward me. He shot out a hand and held it open, with a lot more force than before.

The door panel jammed into me, pinching my arm, and the pain pulled a hiss out of me.

Ethan let go and stepped back half a pace.

"You really found someone else?" he asked.

I didn't answer.

"Is he rich?"

Still I didn't answer.

"Joan, it's been what, a few days since the divorce, and you've already lined up your next stop. Did you have him lined up all along?"

I looked at his face, the face I'd looked at for five years. The brows, the eyes, the nose, the mouth, I knew every part of it, could have drawn it with my eyes closed.

But looking at it now, it was as foreign as a stranger's on the street.

"Get lost," I said.

The door shut, the latch clicking into place. I leaned my back against it. Out in the hallway Ethan stood there a while, then his footsteps headed toward the stairwell.

Not the elevator. The stairs.

The footsteps grew fainter and finally faded out.

The phone on the couch lit up. A message from Christian: What do you want for dinner tonight, I'll bring it over.

I didn't reply. I went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. It was cold, chilling me from my throat all the way down to my stomach. The window was open, the breeze lifting the curtain, the hem of it brushing the stovetop. There was nothing on the stove, clean as if no one had ever lived here.

The doorbell rang again.

I thought it was Ethan coming back, and stood by the door without moving.

The bell rang once more, then came a knock, not heavy, very even. Tap tap tap, a pause, tap tap tap.

"Miss Fox?" It was Christian's voice.

I pulled the door open. He stood in the doorway, groceries in one hand, a plastic bag in the other with two cartons of milk inside. When he saw me, he looked me over, his gaze settling on my arm.

"What happened to your arm?"

I glanced down. The spot where the door had caught it had flushed red and was already turning blue. I said it was nothing, that I'd bumped it by accident.

He didn't press. He carried the groceries in and set them on the kitchen counter. Leafy greens poked out of the bag, chives, baby bok choy, and a block of tofu.

"Ethan was here?" he asked.

I said nothing.

He took the groceries out one by one, set the tofu in a bowl, bundled the chives upright in a water glass like a flower arrangement. When he was done, he turned and looked at me.

"If he comes again, you call me."

"No need. I can handle it myself."

Christian looked at me for two seconds, then let it go. He put the milk in the fridge. It was nearly empty inside, the two cartons sitting on the top shelf, looking lonely.

"Porridge for dinner okay?" he asked.

"Sure."

He tied on an apron and started washing the vegetables, water rushing from the faucet. I stood in the kitchen doorway watching his back, the broad shoulders, the straight spine. His hands weren't fast, but they were careful, washing leaf by leaf.

"Christian," I said.

He shut off the water and turned around.

"Why would you want a woman who's just divorced and has a kid?"

He thought for maybe two seconds, then said, "Because I'm raising a kid on my own too."

Then he turned the faucet back on and went on washing.