Page 35 of How Freaking Romantic

It’s like a punch in the gut. I’m vaguely aware that Nathan is still talking to the cashier nearby, laughing about some anecdote involving breakfast foods. He doesn’t notice as I turn and walk out the door.

“He sent it to you on Friday night?” I hiss once I’m out on the sidewalk.

“Well, technically he sent it to my lawyer, and she forwarded it to me. But yeah.”

My mind flashes back to that night, to the moment Nathan so casually said he had been working late before he came uptown to see me.

“What does it say?” I ask, trying to mask the growing anger in my voice.

“I’m still working my way through it. The alimony is bad, obviously.

But there’s also a lot that just doesn’t match up.

Josh’s financial disclosure is here, but the numbers don’t match what I thought.

Like, he had worked and saved up a lot for grad school, but he dropped out after a year, so some of that money should still be here.

But I’m not seeing it. It’s just… gone.”

The comment itches a deep part of my memory.

This is familiar, and I hate that it’s familiar.

My mind races back to college, after Josh’s injury when he was lying about where his money was being spent, when he was lying about everything.

Thousands of dollars of his parents’ money disappeared, bills went months without being paid.

It had been a mess—one that hid something much more awful.

But it was also something Josh had promised wouldn’t happen again.

“You need to flag that, Jills.” My tone barely conceals my newly stoked anger. “His lawyer needs to know if he’s lying or hiding money—”

“Don’t worry, I have a call with my lawyer tomorrow to discuss it. Hopefully there are enough discrepancies here to challenge the alimony. She says he can get into serious trouble for lying on these documents.”

I shake my head. “Serves him right for pursuing it in the first place.”

“Don’t give him too much credit,” Jillian says with a sigh. “He didn’t come up with the idea; his lawyer did.”

That bottomless pit in my stomach opens wider, pulling everything inside me down. “Nathan Asher?”

“Yeah. Apparently, all Josh had to do was mention how I have been supporting him for the past couple years, and his lawyer did the rest.” Then she groans, as if she just remembered who she’s talking to.

“Please don’t go storming into his office again, Bea.

My lawyer and I just got back to a good place, and I don’t want to jeopardize that. ”

“I won’t,” I say. I’m vaguely aware that Nathan has walked out of the grocery store, but the thundering pulse in my ears won’t let me acknowledge him. I keep my head down and my phone to my ear.

“Thank you,” Jillian says. “Okay, I should let you go. I’ll call you when I get home in a few days, okay? I can finally pick up my dishes and you can help me scour Boston apartment listings.”

“Sure, sounds good,” I say.

Then she hangs up.

I bring the phone down to my side.

“Hey,” I hear Nathan’s voice ahead of me.

I look up. He’s standing a few feet away, a grocery bag in each hand and a smile on his face.

I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know what to do with this raw feeling, this dark, ugly thing growing inside me that feels so much like anger but is sharper.

Scarier. I want to hand it to someone and have them tell me what to do with it.

But the only person I can ask to help is the one responsible for it in the first place.

His smile fades as he takes in my expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I seethe.

He takes a step toward me, his brow creased with concern. “Talk to me, Bea.”

“Fine,” I say, throwing my arms out at my side. “Everything is wrong.”

“What happened?”

“Jillian just called me.”

“Okay…” Nathan says it like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“You remember Jillian, don’t you?” I ask, my tone biting. “The woman you sent that twenty-four-page petition to on Friday right before you came uptown to help me?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw, and I hate how I see the recognition click into place. “Hey. Come on—”

“No.” I shake my head, anger hitting me again. “She’s spent all weekend stressed about it, trying to figure it out. Meanwhile, you and I have been pretending like everything is fine—”

“Everything is fine,” he says slowly. It’s his lawyer voice again, stern but tinged with annoyance.

“Oh my God, stop placating me!” I snap. “Stop pretending like you’re not actively working to destroy Jillian’s life.”

“I’m not destroying her life, Bea,”

“Oh really? Who decided to ask for alimony?”

Something in his eyes shutters, but not before I see the guilt flash across his expression. “Listen—”

“Who?” I demand.

“They’re getting divorced, Bea,” he says. It comes out calmly, like he’s explaining this to one of his students. “Believe it or not, I’m just trying to help them through it.”

“No, you used to help people. But then you stopped, remember? You had to ‘grow the firm’ and ‘focus on your clients.’ That was your choice, so don’t try to make yourself feel better about it by saying you’re ‘helping.’ As if getting paid to divide up people’s lives somehow makes you a benevolent person. ”

“I never claimed to be benevolent,” he says, his expression hardening. “But my job doesn’t make me a malicious asshole, either. It’s just a job.”

“Sorry to break it to you, Nate, but the person that walks out of that office every day is the same fucking person that walks in.”

A couple of women walk by, their eyes wide as they listen to me. Then they give Nathan a sympathetic look.

He waits until they pass before he says, “Can we just—”

“No, seriously. How do you not feel bad?”

He frowns, that same frown from the first time I met him, the one that implies he’s almost disappointed in my train of thought. “I thought we were past this.”

“Past this?” I let out a bitter laugh, lost as to where to even begin explaining why I would never be past this.

“I spent my whole childhood watching this happen over and over, and I promised myself I’d never let it happen to me.

And now here I am, losing more people I love to divorce, while sleeping with the guy responsible for all of it! ”

I can feel the tears burning behind my eyes but blink them away, choosing to focus on anger instead.

Nathan releases a sigh as his hands go to his hips. “You have every right to be pissed off, but don’t make me the target of it. It’s not fair for you to throw this in my face every time you need someone to blame.”

“Well, you make it pretty fucking easy,” I say, throwing my arms out at my side.

“Jesus.” He shakes his head, letting his gaze drop to the sidewalk. “I know what you’re doing, Bea.”

I still, narrowing my eyes on him. “What am I doing?”

He lifts his gaze back to me. The sympathy is still there, but there’s also a clear frankness.

“You’re so fucking scared of being vulnerable that you’d rather stand out here fighting for someone else’s relationships than think about what you actually want, because that’s easier than getting hurt, right? ”

Too close. His words hit too close to my heart. Panic swells in my throat, but I swallow it down as I raise my chin. “You don’t know me.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, well. At least I’m trying to.”

He doesn’t move, as if he’s waiting for me to say…

what? That he’s right? That it’s easier for me to lash out than admit how terrifying all of this is?

Because that’s what I want to do. Right now, I want to walk those few steps forward that would bring me to his chest and let him hold me.

I want to mourn what I’ve lost this year, what he and I could’ve had if none of this had happened at all.

And I know he would listen; God, I can see in his eyes that he wants to.

But he’s right. I’m too fucking scared.

The silence expands, stretching out like it’s creating physical distance between us. After a long moment, he sighs, messing up his hair in frustration before motioning his head toward the way we came. “Come on, let’s go.”

We don’t say a word as we walk back to his apartment.

I’m a few steps ahead, and Nathan carries the bags behind me.

I can feel his gaze on the back of my head, as if he’s trying to decipher what I’m thinking.

Except that even I can’t make sense of the conflicting thoughts and worries and fears.

They’re all churning together in the simmering anger.

But amid the chaos, I know one thing: he’s too close. And that means I have to end this now.

His eyes are locked on me in the elevator.

I steel my expression, keeping my gaze ahead as the car slowly climbs up to the ninth floor.

As soon as the doors open, I’m walking forward, down the hall to his apartment door.

He arrives a few moments after I do, unlocking the dead bolt and pushing it open for me to enter.

I pass him in silence, then hear his steps follow me inside.

“Do you want to spend the rest of the weekend not talking to each other?” he asks as we enter the living room.

I scoff. “No. That’s literally the last thing I want to do.”

I continue on to the bedroom and slam the door shut. I know he’ll give me a few minutes to cool down before coming after me, so I take advantage of the time and tear through the room, grabbing my loose clothes strewn across the floor. Then I open the bedroom door and head down the hall.

Nathan is standing like a monolith in the center of the living room, his tall body still clad in his running gear. His head rises when he hears me coming. His expression looks tired, but when I grab my laundry bag and start stuffing clothes inside, it contorts with confusion.

“What are you doing?”

I drag the bag past him to the front door. “Going home.”

His eyes widen. “Are you serious?”

“Very.”

“Jesus, Bea,” he growls.

“What?” I ask, turning to face him.

He’s still a few steps away from me, his hands on his hips. The anger is back, sharpening the line of his brow, the angle of his jaw. “We’re in the middle of an argument.”

“No, you’re arguing. I’m leaving.”

He shakes his head. “This is bullshit. You don’t just walk out the door when things get too hard.”

I can’t help the bitter laugh that leaves my lips as I throw my coat and backpack over my arm. “That’s ironic coming from the guy who makes his money off people doing just that.”

The minute I utter the words I want to take them back. But it’s too late. His shoulders slump, and the mix of hurt and disappointment on his face is almost too much to bear.

I know should apologize. I want to. But the anger is still too raw, my pride too wounded. So I grab the strings of my laundry bag and drag it behind me as I leave, slamming the front door closed.

The hallway is silent, like I’ve just landed in a still life. Even I can’t move; I just stand there, my back to his door. The elevators are ahead. Just a few steps and I could press the down button, get in one, and leave. It would be so easy. A clean break.

Easy, but not simple. Because there’s some sort of admission in that first step, like I’m giving up.

Like this is really over. Even the thought sends a spike of panic through my chest. I try to swallow it down, but that only seems to sharpen it, poking my heart with every breath.

Reminding me of the truth: I don’t want this to be done.

I don’t want to have to walk away from this door and never see the man behind it again.

The anger is nothing compared to the abject fear of that first step.

But the alternative, the idea of not leaving, is just as terrifying.

There is too much to discuss, too much baggage to work through.

I had fought like we had to purge all the rot before anything else could grow, but I had taken for granted that he had more to dig out.

And maybe there would be nothing left when he was done.

At least I’m trying to.

I don’t know why those words stung; people had said a lot worse to me. But this felt different. Like it exposed some vulnerability in us both.

And he’s right. I would rather lash out than acknowledge this feeling, so big and so devastating that I can’t even hold on to the anger anymore. But I also know it won’t go away when I get in that elevator.

It’s another minute before I turn around to face the door again. My breath is shaky and so is my fist as I raise it, ready to knock… but I let it hover there. What if he doesn’t answer? What if he doesn’t—

The door swings open before I finish the thought. He’s standing on the threshold, his face tired and somber and so fucking sad that I feel the last of my feeble defenses crumble and the stark reality left in its wake.

I’m in love with him.

We stare at each other, and in the silence, I try to say everything that feels stuck in my throat.

I’m sorry.

I don’t want to go.

I love you.

But I shrug instead, swallowing back the lump in my throat and say, “The weekend’s not over yet.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw as he steps forward and wraps his arms around me.

It’s a tight, desperate embrace, like he thinks I might still disappear if he doesn’t hold on.

And I wrap my arms around him because, yes, I think he might just disappear, too.

This rare thing could go from my life as quickly as it appeared.

That fear has me clinging to him so tightly I think his T-shirt might rip.

I’m in love with you and you’re right, it scares the shit out of me , I want to whisper in his ear. But it turns out I really am a coward, because I don’t say anything at all as he straightens his back, lifting me off my feet and turning us both back into the apartment.