Page 11 of Promise

One day we were arguing; the next, he was gone.

Despite his attempts at keeping up communication, I didn’t know what to say to him.

Eventually, I had to stop. Stop listening to messages. Stop reading texts. Just stop.

Near the one-year mark of his absence, I’d filed for divorce, signed the paperwork, and sent it to him to sign and mail in.

When the deed to the house arrived, along with a statement that the mortgage was paid in full, I wept for days. Not out of relief after more than a decade of struggling to make ends meet, but at the finality of it all.

We were over.

And he shouldn’t be here.

“Honey.” He chews his lower lip. “I’m home.” His voice drops, sheepish while playful, and his arms spread wide before falling to his sides. Those whiskey eyes, burnt orange with flecks of gold, give me a look that once dismantled all my ire when we argued over things, like who should take out the trash.

And dammit, I will not permit those eyes to have an effect on me now.

Thankfully, his gaze drops from my face to the floor, like he’s a child about to be scolded. Which he would deserve.

Instead, I keep it simple. “Get out.”

The words leap from my lips, bold and loud, like I’ve been waiting three long years just to kick him out, as if he hadn’t left me first.

His head sharply lifts, his shoulders falling. “Trin . . .”

“Don’t you Trin me. And don’t you dare sneak into my house and settle on my couch like you still live here.”

He sighs, turning his head to the side briefly before looking back at me again. Those eyes are fierce, frightening in a way that says he knows something I don’t.

“I do live here. This is my house.”

“This.” I stomp once and tighten my hold on Mirabelle. “Is my home.”

Dart pulls his hands from his pockets and takes a large step toward me, mouth falling open like he’s about to speak.

With the suddenness of his approach, I take a step back, and Mirabelle shudders again.

He glances at the baby and clamps his lips tightly, like he’s holding back words he knows he’ll regret.

Oblivious to the fight around her, but possibly sensing the tension within me, Mirabelle squirms. I hold onto her even tighter, like I want to be that snail, coiling into a protective shell, and taking her along with me.

Dart tilts his head to the side, letting his gaze rest on Mirabelle. His eyes roam over the back of her downy-haired head and along the short length of her curved back to her little bottom, settled on the ledge of my forearm.

His shoulders fall even further. His eyes soften. He turns his head one more time.

The distance between us is a valley of vast separation and undeniable pain. Of questions without answers.

Over time, I no longer knew who to blame. I only knew I couldn’t continue to love him.

I had to stop loving him.

And he needs to leave.

As if he read my thoughts, he steps back toward the low table between the couch and two chairs, swipes a ball cap off it, and sets it on his head, tugging the bill low, shielding his eyes.

“I see I’m not welcome here this evening.”

Welcome here? Is he serious right now?