Chapter 8 - ROMAN ASKED BEFORE HE BOUGHT THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR
Three years after Christmas Eve, Roman committed what I considered his funniest crime.
He bought the house two doors down from mine.
Through a normal real-estate listing.
Under his own name.
No shell company.
No surprise closing.
But he made one crucial mistake.
He forgot to ask me first.
I found out from Molly.
“Your ex-husband bought the Porter house.”
I stared.
“What?”
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
Roman arrived for Amelia’s pickup at 5:00.
I stood on the porch.
He saw my face.
“Oh.”
“Exactly.”
“It was available.”
“There are thousands of available houses.”
“It’s close to Amelia.”
“That is not the point.”
“I asked Claire.”
“My former divorce attorney?”
“She said legally I can buy any house.”
“I’m going to kill Claire.”
“Figure of speech?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I crossed my arms.
“Why didn’t you ask me?”
He looked genuinely confused.
Then slowly understood.
Because proximity affected me too.
School.
Neighbors.
Privacy.
He had made a decision centered on our daughter that still changed my life.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
“What?”
“Don’t apologize in three seconds because you know the correct answer.”
Roman rubbed his jaw.
“I thought living nearby would make co-parenting easier.”
“It might.”
“I thought you’d like Amelia having both parents close.”
“I might.”
“I also wanted to be close to you.”
There it was.
“And that is why you should have asked.”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do?”
He looked at the house.
“Sell it.”
I hadn’t expected that.
“You already closed?”
“Yes.”
“You’d sell?”
“Yes.”
“If you don’t want me there.”
I stared.
Old Roman would have argued until my objection sounded irrational.
New Roman would take a financial loss.
Choice.
I sighed.
“You can keep it.”
His face changed.
“But?”
“Do not mistake permission about a house for permission about anything else.”
“I won’t.”
“And no tunnel.”
He looked offended.
“I’m Italian, not a cartoon.”
“You have hidden wine rooms.”
“One.”
“Exactly.”
He kept the house.
It became ordinary.
Amelia rode a scooter between our driveways.
Roman learned the names of neighbors.
Mrs. Fletcher across the street once asked him to move his trash bins.
He did.
Chicago survived.
My relationship with Roman also became ordinary.
Dinners.
Family outings.
Occasional nights together after Amelia slept at Sophia’s.
We did not remarry.
Not yet.
I needed to know love could exist without legal permanence.
Roman accepted.
His probation ended.
He remained involved only in legitimate companies.
The feared reputation lingered.
People still lowered voices.
But reputation was historical weather.
Our actual life looked different.
Then Roman was offered a massive construction partnership in New York.
Five years.
Frequent travel.
Old Roman would have accepted and announced logistics later.
New Roman asked me before saying yes.
Not permission.
Impact.
“What do you think?”
He asked.
I stared at the proposal.
“Do you want it?”
“Yes.”
“Would you move?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Amelia’s here.”
“You’re here.”
I smiled.
“Flattering.”
“True.”
“How much travel?”
“Three days every other week.”
“Can we handle that?”
There it was.
We.
Not because married.
Because his decision affected our daughter and our developing relationship.
We discussed it.
He accepted.
No betrayal.
No hidden trip.
Every itinerary shared because co-parenting required it.
Not because I demanded location tracking.
Choice changed even the same behavior.
Sometimes Roman sent me photos from airports.
Actually in New York. Evidence attached.
Dark humor.
Healing had strange taste.
On Christmas Eve that year, four years after I left, Roman came over at noon.
Jeans.
Dark green sweater.
No bergamot.
No tuxedo.
Amelia, now four, made cookies with Sophia.
Flour everywhere.
Roman’s phone sat faceup on the counter.
It buzzed.
A woman’s name.
Molly Hale.
My business partner.
Roman answered on speaker.
“Your wife—”
Molly stopped.
“Sorry.”
“Your not-wife says you still owe us contractor pricing.”
Roman looked at me.
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
He sighed.
“Robbery.”
Amelia shouted:
“Daddy, no bad words!”
“Robbery is not—”
I pointed.
“Don’t fight a four-year-old on Christmas.”
He surrendered.
That evening we ate dinner together.
At the same table where I once waited alone.
Different house.
Different life.
After Amelia fell asleep, Roman handed me a small box.
I stared.
“No.”
He laughed.
“Not a ring.”
Inside was a brass key.
“What?”
“To my house.”
“I already have one for emergencies.”
“That’s security access.”
“This is different.”
“How?”
He looked nervous.
“I want you to have a key because I want you there.”
“No obligation.”
“No moving.”
“No hidden meaning.”
“Just a key.”
I held it.
Then gave him one to mine.
I had made it weeks earlier.
His eyes filled.
“Savannah.”
“Don’t ruin it.”
He laughed.
We kissed.
Four years earlier, Christmas Eve ended our marriage.
That Christmas, nothing dramatic happened.
May you like
Which was exactly what I wanted.
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