Chapter 8 - WENDY ASKED TO SEE ME ONCE
Three years passed.
I moved.
Worked.
Traveled.
Stopped checking whether Luca’s gyms were still open.
They were.
Two survived.
One became majority-owned by his restructuring partner.
Luca was no longer the flashy entrepreneur people once knew.
He became operations director in the company he had founded.
Less control.
Less prestige.
More accountability.
I knew only because a mutual friend mentioned it.
I changed the subject.
Then Wendy developed breast cancer.
Early stage.
Treatable.
Phoebe told me.
I sent flowers anonymously.
Not because I wanted a relationship.
Because compassion did not require one.
Wendy somehow knew.
Three months later, she sent one request through Mara.
One meeting.
No pressure.
I almost declined.
Then said yes.
Public café.
Daytime.
Forty-five minutes.
Wendy looked smaller.
Gray hair growing back.
No designer armor.
She sat.
“Thank you.”
“You have forty-five minutes.”
She almost smiled.
“You sound like your lawyer.”
“I paid attention.”
Then she said:
“I sold the old house.”
“I heard.”
“I paid my debt.”
“Good.”
“Luca did too.”
I did not respond.
She understood.
“I didn’t ask you here to talk about him.”
Good.
She took a small object from her purse.
My wedding cake topper.
I stared.
Bride and groom.
Tiny plastic figures.
The groom’s head had broken off.
I laughed before I could stop myself.
Wendy smiled sadly.
“The venue sent boxes to me after everything.”
“Why did you keep that?”
“I don’t know.”
Then:
“Maybe punishment.”
I touched the broken figure.
“No.”
“What?”
“You don’t need objects to punish you forever.”
She looked at me.
“I laughed at you.”
“I know.”
“I wish I could take it back.”
“You can’t.”
“I know.”
That mattered.
No demand for absolution.
Then Wendy said:
“Luca told me what he did.”
“What?”
“Not just the cake.”
My body tightened.
“He told me about the wall.”
The hole he punched beside me.
“The phone.”
My wrist.
“The threats.”
I stared.
“He told you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He said he was tired of letting me believe you exaggerated.”
I looked away.
That was his work.
Not mine.
Wendy continued.
“I used to think protecting my son meant protecting him from shame.”
She swallowed.
“I understand now that sometimes shame is the alarm that tells you your behavior has become unacceptable.”
We sat silently.
Then she pushed the cake topper toward me.
“Do you want it?”
“No.”
She nodded.
“Neither do I.”
The waitress brought the check.
Wendy paid.
We walked outside.
Before leaving, she said:
“I hope you have a good life.”
“I do.”
That surprised me.
Not because it was untrue.
Because I had finally said it without checking whether it sounded convincing.
I had a good life.
Not perfect.
Good.
I dated occasionally.
Then stopped.
Then started again.
No urgency.
People kept asking whether I wanted to marry again.
My answer changed over time.
Never.
Maybe.
I don’t know.
Eventually:
If it feels different.
Then I met Noah Bennett.
He was not a billionaire.
Not a federal agent.
Not Luca’s enemy.
He restored historic buildings.
We met when Carroway’s old headquarters needed redevelopment.
Our first conversation was about windows.
Romantic.
He asked me out six months later.
I said no.
Then changed my mind three days later.
He laughed.
“Promising start.”
I told him about Luca before the relationship became serious.
Not every detail.
Enough.
Noah listened.
Then asked:
“What do you need from me around that history?”
Nobody had asked me that before.
I nearly cried.
“Don’t make me prove it.”
“Okay.”
That was all.
We dated for three years.
No pressure.
No shared accounts immediately.
No surprise keys.
No “where are you?” texts disguised as affection.
When he became angry, he left the room and came back.
The first time he did that, I panicked.
Then he returned ten minutes later.
“I needed to cool down.”
He sat.
“I’m still upset. I’m not leaving you.”
I cried.
He looked terrified.
“Did I do something?”
“No.”
That was when I understood healing can make ordinary decency feel extraordinary.
Eventually ordinary became ordinary again.
May you like
Better.
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