Page 72 of The Best Worst Thing

The Prince of Manhattan Beach

With her stomach in knots, Nicole knocked on the freshly painted door of an unremarkable Brentwood apartment, then held her breath as the familiar sound of her husband’s footsteps padded toward her.

“Hi,” Gabe said, smiling weakly as he pushed the door wide open. It was the Saturday after Thanksgiving, and twelve o’clock on the dot, just like they’d agreed. “Come on in.”

Nicole exhaled, then stepped inside. Everywhere, boxes—proof of a strange, new life. On the coffee table, a half-eaten bowl of cereal, a couple of receipts, his keys. Strewn across the quartz countertops, a few bananas, a handful of take-out menus, a stack of mail.

Gabe stared at her hand. “What happened to you? Are you okay?”

“I sort of peeled a potato while experiencing feelings. I’m fine.”

Gabe chuckled. Nicole did too. And then she re-remembered why she was here and wiped the smile off her face.

“Can we maybe sit down?” she said.

“Yeah, yes. Of course. Do you want some coffee? You hungry at all, or … ?”

Nicole shook her head, then took a seat at his kitchen table—small, white, round. Today’s Financial Times, already rumpled and read.

“So listen,” she said, stacking a couple of coasters with their mates. Gabe was sitting at the edge of his seat, rocking back and forth. “I wanted to—”

“Before you say it, can I go first?”

Nicole shrugged.

“My whole life,” Gabe said, “I’ve been surrounded by men who do whatever they want, take whatever they want, get whatever they want.

And for as long as I can remember, that’s what I wanted too.

That’s what being a man looked like to me.

Money and girls and … and then I met you, and you saw right through it.

You laughed in my face when I tried to act cool.

You kicked me in the shin when I said something douchey.

You made me sing in the car and rank my favorite cheeses and admit that I hated my father.

You climbed on top of me when I tried to put up walls.

And suddenly it all made sense, this reason to give the rest of it up.

To just try and be a decent guy. To try to love you the way I’d promised to love you.

But I couldn’t do it. I tried, but I just couldn’t.

And that day at the house, I couldn’t stand the idea that another guy got it right.

And it looked like he had. Fuck, it looked like he loved you—like you’d finally found a good one.

And when I realized it, I couldn’t stand it, the idea that I’d really lost you.

That I deserved to lose you. That you were going to be better off without me. ”

“I, um …” Nicole wrinkled her nose, then carefully exhaled. “The things you said to me were not okay. That can’t happen.”

“I know,” he said.

“When we have the baby, that can’t happen. We can’t fight like we’ve been fighting. We have to do better than our parents. Especially if things are going to be a little different.”

He gulped. Nicole bit down on her tongue, then dug into her purse, pulled out a small turquoise box and slid it across the table. Gabe frowned, then ran his fingers along the curved, velvet edges.

“I’m going to file for divorce as soon as the baby’s born,” she said. “The day the birth certificate is amended, I’m going to serve you. I don’t want to fight. I’m sure it’s going to be complicated. Let’s try to keep our stuff as simple as we can.”

“Colie, I—”

“I will raise the baby with you. I will stay right here in LA. We will do everything we can together, if you want. But we need a therapist. We need to figure this stuff out. My lawyer recommended someone down the street from your office, so maybe we do that. Just let me know what days and times you’re usually open and I’ll set it up. ”

He nodded, still tracing the ring box. His gaze, low.

“I’m going to move in with Mari after the holidays, at least until I find a place that makes sense for me.

It’s expensive here, but I’ll figure it out.

If you want to move back into the house, it’s yours.

If not, you can rent it out or sell it or whatever you want—our lawyers can figure that out.

I’m going to get a full-time job, probably a few months after the baby is born, and I’m looking for something temporary now.

I can’t wait until we settle—it just doesn’t work for me.

We can talk about childcare. I’m already on a few daycare waitlists, which I thought would be good because she’ll be an only, but we can figure that out together.

Nanny or whatever you think, we can discuss. I’m open.”

Gabe stared at her. “Sh-she?”

Nicole nodded, smiling.

“A girl?” he said. “Really?”

“Yeah. I talked to Valerie. We’re having a daughter.”

Gabe’s eyes, which were the slightest bit damp, had lit up. “Holy shit,” he said. “I’m going to be dad to a little girl?”

“Yeah,” she said. “You are.”

And then, for a minute, they just sat there, looking at their hands. Looking at each other.

“I’ve been thinking about her name a lot,” Nicole said. “I know your parents like to do ones that start with ‘G,’ so maybe we just keep the tradition going. Maybe Gemma or Grace or something like that?”

“Yeah,” he said. “That sounds good.”

Nicole smiled, then stood up from her chair. “Well, I guess that’s it, then. Text me some good times for the therapist. And come get your wine before Mari drinks it all.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Can I at least walk you to your car?”

Nicole nodded, and off they went, making stiff-but-serviceable small talk about Gabe’s nieces and nephews, his dad’s virtual golf lessons, and the reemergence of that strange-but-harmless dark patch on Nero’s hind paw.

When they’d arrived at her car a couple of blocks away, Nicole felt older, but lighter.

She’d always known she’d go. She’d never wanted to stay.

But it was one thing to imagine it done, and another to actually say the words when she was utterly, entirely calm.

To walk away from a man she’d given every ounce of herself to, even if it meant going it alone.

But she’d done it.

She’d really done it.

“Hey, Colie?” he said, just as she was reaching for her car door.

“Yeah?”

“That first year was real,” he said. “I swear, it was real. I’m sorry I let you down. I’m sorry I couldn’t do it forever.”

Nicole just stood there, nodding, remembering them tangled in a king-size bed, the winter sun a dot rising over Greenwich Village as he’d put his head on her chest and—voice cracked—told her she was the first real friend he’d ever had, and Nicole, lying there, thought somehow, this beautiful, broken boy was probably telling her the truth. That probably, she was.

“It’s okay,” she said, biting back tears. “Nobody ever taught us how.”

And then, something strange happened. Nicole pulled her stiff, shaking, not-particularly-soon-to-be-ex-husband into her arms, closed her eyes, and held him tight as Los Angeles, crisp and blue, carried on.

“Grace,” he said as he finally pulled back, rubbing his eyes. “I think I like Grace.”

“Me too,” Nicole said. “It’s perfect.”