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Until I screwed it all up.
She pointed down the hallway toward a closed door. I used to wonder what her bedroom was like. It was stupid, but lying in bed in a deathly quiet, empty house would make a man’s mind wander.
She was both the person I knew best and also a complete stranger. We were together for thirteen years. I’d memorized every inch of her body, every expression and tic and habit, yet I had no idea whether her room was decorated with the white curtains and matching duvet cover that she’d always loved. Did she still have the reading lamp she used to leave on when she couldn’t sleep? Did she keep that stuffed bear I’d won for her at the fair when we were nineteen?
Doubtful.
Marigold stumbled away from me and ran straight into the wall. She let out a surprised squeak, then a giggle.
I closed my eyes and dug deep for the inner strength I’d need to get through this.
“All right, Goldie. Let’s get to bed.” I grasped her arm and draped it over my shoulders so she could lean on me for support as I led her down the hall and into the warmly lit bedroom.
Though it was smaller than I imagined, the space mostly resembled the image I’d created in my dreams.
One wall was sage green, and the others were white. The wrought-iron bed frame had been painted white, and the fluffy duvet that I’d wondered about was draped over the mattress. The green pillows popped, making the white look extra crisp.
A multitude of shoes were scattered along the wooden bench at the foot of the bed. Not only hers, but the boys’ cleats. A large floral painting, one I recognized from our last house, hung above her bed. Her tiny initials—MW—were painted in the bottom right corner.
There was a stack of laundry on the accent chair. Ridiculously, the sight of it made my heart race. There, folded neatly, were several items she had recently worn around me.
She did have matching curtains. And to my utter joy, positioned on the right side of the bed, was a worn-out fuzzy bear with a monocle and a top hat. He looked a little worse for wear, but I’d recognize him anywhere.
I sniffled. Cute. Only this was not helping me determine where our relationship stood.
“Home sweet home,” Marigold sang off-key, holding her arms out and flinging herself face-first onto the bed. She flopped onto the mattress so her head was on one side and her legs dangled off the other.
I chuckled and rocked back on my heels, fighting the urge to plop down beside her. “You’re good, right? Don’t need anything else?”
“Hmm. One thing, real quick,” she mumbled into the scrunched up throw blanket next to her face.
“Anything.” I caught myself off guard, and her a little too, I think, with the answer.
She rolled to one side and blinked up at me, her eyes suddenly wide, the irises deep pools of sincerity. “Promise me you won’t marry a PTO president?”
My heart tripped over itself. Well, that was not what I expected.
“Um.” I cleared my throat and racked my brain for a way to lighten the moment. “Okay? Gotta find a woman I’m interested in before I go off and get married.”
Not that any of that—other women or marriage in general—was on the horizon. Not when I was still clearly hung up on my ex-wife.
“I don’t like her.” Marigold stuck her lower lip out in a pout.
Feeling bold, I shuffled closer. “Who?”
“Your new wife.”
The laugh that escaped me bounced off the walls. “Oh, really? Why not?”
“Her boobs are the same size, for one. And she laughs like a hyena. Plus, everyone likes her. She always wears heels and has never accidentally forgotten dinner in the oven.”
Ah, yes. I do remember that happening on a few occasions when Marigold would get lost in her painting.
“And she’s the PTO president, so she makes me do all the boring stuff when I volunteer, like put stamps on school mail-outs.”
I smirked down at her. “Huh, that doesn’t sound like the kind of woman I’d marry.”
Those red-rimmed puppy dog eyes met mine. The look was like a punch to the gut.
