The Song From Cape Cod's Shore

Brendan froze. He hesitated, then changed tack. "Let me take you to dinner tonight. The new therapy is a massive success, and you’re the one who made it happen. We need to celebrate properly."

He paused, glancing at me. "Should we invite Sloane? I think you two should talk. After all, she was just a child when your mother passed away."

My hand trembled, sloshing coffee over the rim of my mug.

Listening to him make excuses for her, I wanted to scream: Wasn't I just a child when my mother was driven into the sea?

I swallowed the rage, took a sip of coffee, and said softly, "This has nothing to do with her. Tonight, it's just us."

We had a divorce to discuss. Outsiders weren't welcome.

My 'sister'? My mother had one daughter. Me. I don't have a sister.

Brendan looked at me, a flicker of smugness on his face; he'd clearly mistaken my anger for jealousy. He opened his mouth to speak, but his phone rang, cutting him off.

He glanced at the screen, and his expression softened at the name "Sloane." He answered without a word to me, just a quick hand gesture as he hurried out of my office.

As the workday ended, a text from him arrived—a reservation for a high-end restaurant in Boston's North End.

I knew this was his attempt at an apology.

I put the printed divorce agreement in my bag and prepared to meet him.

As I was leaving the building, Brendan’s car pulled up. He rolled down the window, and I spotted a woman's handbag on the passenger seat. "Go home and get ready first. I have to see a client. I'll be there soon."

He sped off before he even finished the sentence.

In the past, I would have spent two hours getting ready for a date with him. Agonizing over clothes and makeup, things I was never good at, left me exhausted. Yet I found a strange, desperate pleasure in trying to please him.

This time, I didn't feel the need.

I found a nearby spa, letting the masseuse work the stiffness from my muscles, giving this body, worn down by years of sleepless nights, a moment of peace.

When I arrived at the restaurant in my comfortable flats, he wasn't there yet.

I sent a text. No reply.

I shook my head. Unlike all the other times, I didn't wait. I ordered for myself.

The ambiance was perfect, the food exquisite—a universe away from the sad desk salads I’d been living on at the lab.