He hugged me before he left and promised to stay in touch.
We did not rush anything after that.
Which, ironically, was probably the first healthy thing either of us had done in years.
We texted the next day. Then the day after. A week later, we had dinner without fake backstories. Two weeks after that, we went to a small theater downtown and enjoyed each other’s company.
A month later, I realized I was looking forward to seeing his face in a way that felt both thrilling and terrifying.
He never pushed or performed.
So when we finally fell in love, it felt natural. It felt like finally coming home.
It’s been eight months now.
I don’t know where this ends. Hopefully, nothing dramatic. Maybe somewhere wonderful.
But I do know this:
The night my ex-husband invited me to his wedding, he wanted to see me lonely.
Instead, I walked in with the man whose life he’d helped wreck, and together we watched his perfect day split open under the weight of his own lies.
Then I went home and bonded over champagne with the first decent man I’d met in a very long time.
Adam once told me I was too emotional, too ordinary, and not the kind of woman a successful man should be seen with.
Adrian has never said anything like that.
He just looks at me like I’m someone worth knowing.
For now, that’s enough.
And for the first time in years, taking it one day at a time doesn’t feel like a loss.
It feels like peace.
