We both knew he would.
Paula took a sip of her coffee and studied me over the rim of her mug. “You going back today?” she asked.
I stared down at the table, at a small scratch in the wood I had never noticed before. “No,” I said, and this time there was no hesitation.
Paula nodded like she had expected that answer. “Good,” she said.
We sat there in silence for a minute. Then I said, more to myself than to her, “I don’t think I can go back to that.”
And for the first time since the night before, I knew I meant it.
The next morning, the quiet didn’t feel as sharp. It still sat there, unfamiliar, but it wasn’t cutting anymore. Paula moved around her kitchen like she always did, slow, steady, like nothing in the world could rush her. The coffee pot clicked off. The fridge opened and closed. Somewhere outside, a lawn mower started up, that low, familiar buzz of a Saturday morning in Ohio.
I sat at her table with my hands wrapped around a mug I hadn’t taken a sip from in a while. My phone was face down beside me. I hadn’t touched it. Not yet.
“You don’t have to look right away,” Paula said without turning around.
“I know.”
But I reached for it anyway, just to see.
The screen lit up, and there it was. Seven missed calls, three voicemails, and a string of texts from Greg.
The first one from last night: Greg, are you serious right now?
Then: Denise, don’t do this in front of people. Come back and we’ll talk later.
Then: Denise, you embarrassed me.
I let out a small breath through my nose at that one. Not a laugh, just something close.
Then the tone shifted.
Where are you?
Answer your phone.
We need to talk about this like adults.
And finally, sent just before midnight: This isn’t how you handle things.
I stared at that last one for a long second.
This isn’t how you handle things.
Twenty-four years of handling things quietly, efficiently, without fuss, and now suddenly I was doing it wrong.
Paula set a plate down in front of me. Toast, scrambled eggs. She always cooked when she didn’t know what else to do.
“You going to answer him?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
She nodded once. “Good.”
We ate in silence for a bit. Not awkward, just steady. After a few minutes, she said, “What about the business?”
That word landed heavier than the rest.
The business. Harlo Home Solutions. Greg’s company. That’s what he always called it. But I knew what it really was, or at least what it had been.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly.
