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“I needed you to hear it from me face-to-face. Not in a text or over the phone. You deserve to hear that I was wrong and that I’m sorry.”
His voice cracks slightly by the end.
I stare at the contents of my coffee mug and try to figure out how to respond to what he’s said. His admissions are a couple years too late, but should he get credit for trying?
Can I find it in me to forgive him, or am I still as hurt as I’ve wondered?
“Look,” I sigh. “I appreciate you admitting what you have. But you had your chance, Craig. I’ve moved on.”
“I can see that,” he grumbles. “You’ve decided to date some ranch hand who looks like you could’ve babysat him in high school.”
A humorless laugh leaves him as I shake my head in disbelief.
“There’s the real Craig. I should’ve known. For your information, he’s twenty-six years old. I also seem to remember the woman you cheated on me with was barely out of college. But it tracks that you’d try to throw stones in a glass house.”
My ex-husband raises both hands up, his brow relaxing. “Okay, you’ve got me. That was way out of line. I have no right to judge you for dating whoever you want to date. I apologize.”
“Is that all you wanted to say, or is there something else? I’m not spending my whole morning on this.”
“Don’t you get it, Viv? Times have been hard lately. Especially since...” he trails off, his throat working from the hard swallow he gives. “Samson passed away.”
I go still, my pulse jumping. “What do you mean Samson—what happened to him?”
“He got into the pantry and ate a whole tin of chocolates. By the time I got him to the emergency vet, he was too far gone. They had to put him down.”
My hand comes up to my face as I mutter, “Oh my god,” under my breath.
I can’t believe the golden retriever we adopted as a sweet, dopey little puppy is gone. He slept at the foot of our bed every night and often laid his head on my lap when watching TV.
He was our good boy, and now he’s gone.
“When did this happen?”
“About three months ago.”
“You didn’t think to tell me? You didn’t think I deserved to know that our dog—my dog—died?”
“I didn’t know how to reach out. We weren’t exactly on speaking terms.”
“You’ve managed to find my address and show up in my town uninvited, Craig. Don’t tell me you couldn’t have sent a text about Samson.”
He drops his gaze to his coffee and says nothing, which is the closest thing to an admission of guilt I’m going to get from him.
Samson’s death is real and so is the grief, but Craig’s bringing it up now as some calculated chess move. He’s using it to buy my time.
“You weren’t even a big fan of dogs,” I say. “You wanted Samson because you knew how hard it would be for me being separated from him. Now you’re using his death to make me feel sorry for you.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“I think it is.” I stand up from the counter and pick up both mugs, carrying them to the leaky sink even though neither one is empty. “I wish you the best. I mean that. But we’re over. I’m never going back. Only forward.”
Seconds go by where he sits at the counter and studies me with his cider-brown eyes and the calculation that happens behind them.
The script didn’t go the way he planned, and Craig Gibson isn’t a man who handles that well.
“I understand,” he says, rising from the stool. “I respect that.”
“I’d like you to leave now.”
