“Yes.”
He swallowed. “You look good.”
“I am good.”
The answer seemed to hurt him more than anger would have.
He glanced toward the empty chair across from him. “Could we talk for a minute?”
Claire considered saying no immediately. But she realized she was not afraid. Not anymore. So she sat—not because he deserved it, but because she wanted to know whether the ghost still had a voice.
Evan sat slowly.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Rain moved down the window behind him, blurring the street into silver lines.
“I heard you remarried,” he said.
“I did.”
“Architect, right?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, as if gathering evidence against a life he could not enter. “I’m glad you’re happy.”
Claire almost believed he wanted to mean it.
“How are you?” she asked.
The question surprised him. He gave a small laugh. “You don’t have to pretend to care.”
“I’m not pretending. I’m asking.”
He looked down. “I’m living with my mother.”
“I heard.”
“Of course you did.”
There it was again—that old reflex, turning shame into accusation.
Claire started to stand.
Evan caught himself. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
She remained seated.
He rubbed both hands over his face. “I lost the consulting contract last month. Mom’s house is… difficult. Dad barely speaks to me. Meredith sees me on holidays and looks at me like I’m someone she used to know.”
Claire said nothing.
“And Amelia,” he added with a bitter smile, “married a hotel investor in France.”
Claire already knew. Natalie had discovered it months earlier and sent only one message: Karma has a passport.
“I thought I was upgrading my life,” Evan said. “That’s the pathetic part. I thought I was escaping responsibility. I thought I deserved something exciting.”
Claire watched him carefully. This was the closest he had ever come to honesty.
He looked at her then, eyes wet. “I didn’t just lose you. I lost the version of myself that made sense.”
“No,” Claire said softly. “You met the version of yourself everyone else had been dealing with.”
He flinched.
Then he nodded.
“I was cruel to you,” he said. “Not just in Paris. Before that. For years.”
Claire’s throat tightened unexpectedly. Not because she wanted him back, but because the truth, even late, still had weight.
“Yes,” she said. “You were.”
“I’m sorry.”
She looked at the man across from her. Once, she had wanted those words so badly she would have accepted them half-formed. Now they arrived fully shaped and found no empty place inside her.
“I believe you’re sorry,” she said. “But I don’t need it anymore.”
A tear slipped down his cheek. He wiped it quickly, embarrassed.
“Do you hate me?” he asked.
Claire thought about it.
“No.”
He looked relieved.
“That doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she added. “It means I stopped carrying you.”
The relief vanished, replaced by something quieter. Understanding, perhaps.
Claire stood carefully, one hand on her belly.
