Page 23 of The Wandering Season

Our embracing continued after we returned to the cottage, our affections simmering slowly in front of the crackling fire. We sat on the couch, and I ignored everything that wasn’t the feel of his lips on mine or his arms around me. I could have lived in that moment forever and been grateful for it, but I eventually disentangled myself with a reluctant groan. If I allowed things to progress further, no matter how much I might want them to, my heart would pay the ultimate price. Niall made no attempt to dissuade me from going up to my room alone. He didn’t seek the invitation he wanted so keenly, because I couldn’t offer it freely.

I changed into my nightgown and stared at the door, half hoping he would knock and ask for one last good-night kiss. How tempted I would be to invite him in and see where the night might lead. But he would not tempt me because he wouldn’t want me simply to give in to him. It had to be my choice, and I would have to be enthusiastic about it when the time came.

If it ever came at all—which wasn’t all that likely.

He would go back to Blackthorn and I to Denver, and our worlds would probably never collide in any meaningful way again. Of course I’d love to have Caitlin and him come to visit. Of course I’d long to go back to Blackthorn and the halls that felt so much like home. But those would be little remembrances of a lovely couple of weeks. He might come to see me once, then I him . . . but would we be able to rekindle the spark we’d just shared? Would it feel hollow and forced or lose its luster when subjected to the harsh light of reality? We might have a few fun interludes, but then as time marched on, communication would fizzle and die. Wasn’t that how long-distance relationships worked?

I tried to distract myself from the ache in my core by reading from the tome Madame DuChatel had given me. I didn’t try to wade through the early pages that listed all manner of census data and miscellany that didn’t pertain to Imogène. After some digging, I found a vague reference to her, saying only that her family left the village after the death of her beloved. There was an interesting section on Coralie DuChatel, the regionally famous apothecary who had loyal patrons all over Aquitaine, Occitanie, and beyond who would travel to her for their remedies. But nothing about what became of Imogène or her child.

It was perhaps an hour before my eyes began to droop and I set the book on the bedside table so I wouldn’t risk dropping it and damaging the brittle binding. I glanced at my phone to check the time, to see that a message had popped up in the time I’d been reading.

Jonathan: Are you doing okay? I thought I’d check in. I hadn’t seen anything from you in a while.

I resisted the urge to hurl my phone but didn’t want to wake Niall who was likely already asleep.

Me: I was supposed to keep sending texts after we broke up?

Jonathan: I guess not. I went by your place, and you weren’t there . . . I’d just hoped to clear the air between us. I can come meet you if you’re out and about. Take you to dinner or whatever.

I checked the time, as I had originally planned to do. It was past one in the morning here and shortly after five in the evening there. He’d swung by my place unannounced on the way home from the office and thought I might drop everything to join him? Some light sarcasm would be the right approach.

Me: It would be an awfully long way to come for dinner.

Jonathan: ???

Me: I’m in France.

Jonathan: Wow. How did you manage that?

I gritted my teeth. It was his little code for can you really afford that? Finances first, foremost, and always with him. And he saw all nonbusiness travel as an extravagance, no matter how frugal the arrangements. If we’d ever come to Europe for vacation, he’d have been counting every euro and heaving indulgent sighs with every mundane purchase, like we’d have been able to forgo the cost of food and gas at home somehow.

Me: Avery and my parents are footing the bill, if you must know. Not that it’s any of your business.

Jonathan: I don’t think I deserve that. I’ve been elbows deep in the finances of your business for the past three years. I know you can’t afford to gallivant around in France on your own dime.

Me: You may have been in the past, but my finances are no longer a concern of yours.

Jonathan: I honestly don’t think I’ve done anything to merit your anger. I’d hoped we’d be able to be adult about things.

I sat up in bed, and the effort it took not to growl at my phone like an angry dog was nothing less than Herculean. But I would not resort to anything so unseemly. I would do the mature thing and send him the photo my best friend had taken surreptitiously of him with his date. Let the photo speak the thousand words for me.

Jonathan: Where did you get that?

I paused to consider my reply. I could see no reason to circumvent the truth.

Me: My best friend saw you. Having a grand time it would seem.

The three dots appeared and disappeared as he typed and discarded several attempts at a message.

Jonathan: It was one date.

Me: Six weeks after you ended our relationship of four years out of the blue?

Jonathan: Was it really out of the blue, though? We’d been having the same struggles for months and months. I can’t believe you didn’t see it coming. Or initiate it yourself.

I typed out a snarky response, which I promptly deleted. As much as a diatribe would have been cathartic, it would not have been productive.

Me: It **was** unexpected. I’d hoped we’d eventually find some solution, but you never seemed invested in doing more than just complaining about the issue.

Jonathan: Well, I’m talking now. Doesn’t that count for something?

Ah, sarcasm with a hint of passive aggression. His specialty. I thought about volleying back, but it wouldn’t come to any good outcome. It was definitely past time for a postmortem on our relationship, and it was better to seek out some level of closure so we could both move on. I took a measured breath and texted back.

Me: But why bother? My schedule won’t change. Yours won’t. Our problems won’t go away.

Jonathan: I’ve been thinking . . . It was silly of me to be so bent out of shape about temporary inconveniences. Once we have kids, it’ll be a nonissue.

I blinked, uncomprehending. We’d only discussed kids in the most hypothetical terms. We were both open to parenting and only wanted two kids at most. It was just discussion enough to know we were compatible in that arena.

Me: How do you figure? That will mean even more complicated scheduling issues.

Jonathan: Well, you won’t want to work after that, right?

Me: Whatever gave you that idea?

Jonathan: I thought deep down it would be what you wanted.

His talent for assumptions was impressive in scope. My mind wandered to Imogène and how passionately she’d loved Lucien. How desperate she was to keep hold of her one tie to him after he’d died. I thought of Aoife having to leave Tadgh behind. No part of me believed they’d have ever been so blind to the desires of the person they claimed to love best in the world.

Me: If you thought that, you haven’t been paying attention to me. At all. My career is important to me and I don’t plan on sacrificing it.

Jonathan: I thought your feelings would change when kids were realistically in the picture.

Me: So you thought you knew better than me what *I* wanted.

Jonathan: Listen . . . fine. I screwed up. I’m sorry. I want the chance to make it up to you.

I blinked at my phone and rubbed my eyes. Surely it was just my travel-weary state and the food coma playing tricks on me. There was no way Jonathan really and truly wanted to make up. No. I had to be misinterpreting.

Me: So you want us to make amends so we can part as friends? I’d like that.

And I’d typed the truth. Four years was a long time to devote to a relationship, and I liked the idea of parting on the best possible terms. I didn’t envision us catching brunch and a matinee anytime soon, but I liked the idea of waving cordially to each other if we crossed paths near the Sixteenth Street Mall or in the lobby of the Performing Arts Center. It seemed like the adult thing to do.

Jonathan: No, I mean I’d like to give us another chance. I want to try and do better. I hope you do too.

My hands shook as I read his text. This was the least likely message I ever expected to receive. A Google alert that an alien invasion was imminent might have shocked me less. And what did it mean that I’d have almost welcomed the little green men over his message? Because, this? This required an answer, and I wasn’t about to give him the one he wanted.

Me: Are you serious?

Jonathan: I usually am.

True words. He rarely had patience for frivolity. He said what he meant and meant what he said . . . and expected the same from everyone around him.

Me: I don’t think so. Clearly we want different things.

Jonathan: Listen, we’ve both invested a lot in this, and I hate to throw it all away.

That was the financier I knew: worried about the investment of his time, the only resource, he’d always touted, that was more valuable than money. I stopped myself from making a reference to the sunk cost fallacy and how just because a person spent a lot of time making a mistake didn’t mean they should stick with it. But I held back.

Me: This is really a lot to take in, and it’s late here. I need some time and I’ll get back to you.

Jonathan: Fair. I shouldn’t have expected an answer right away.

Read: He absolutely had expected an immediate answer and was disappointed not to get it, but he was trying to be adult about it. Brownie points for trying, I guessed. His three dots popped back up again before I could think of sending anything worth the international data usage.

Jonathan: When do you get back from France? I can get you from DIA. We can grab dinner and reassess then if you want.

Me: A little over two weeks yet.

Jonathan: Wow, that’s quite the extended trip. Are you sure your business can handle your being gone so long? I know it’s the down season, but still.

He was always skeptical of my work. And it hit me: He was always worrying the joy out of the small wins. A new client? Well, better not neglect the ones you have. A great new vendor? Hopefully their prices won’t cause the restaurant clients to run too close to the margins. It. Was. Exhausting. I shouldn’t have been surprised at his assumption about me giving up work, really. Jonathan made plenty of money, after all, and I was sure to have a whole bevy of things to occupy my time. Hosting dinners to impress his colleagues and clients. Being active in the Denver charity scene to put an extra shine on the Jonathan Phillips brand. And, of course, a pair of little Phillipses to carry on the name and legacy. I evened my breath and thought out a measured response.

Me: It’s not all sightseeing. I’m making some good contacts here. Hoping to impress the clients I have and woo some new ones, as always. You wouldn’t believe the truffle market we went to.

Jonathan: I’m sure it was all kinds of fun for you. Right up your alley. But if you want to look into changing your flight, I’d spring for the difference and the fees.

His impatience was another charming quality of his. He didn’t want to wait two weeks or more to mend things now that he had the idea in his head.

Me: Avery and Steph are coming over next week to meet up in Italy. Then I’ll be off to Copenhagen.

Jonathan: Wow. That’s . . . quite the trek. Sounds exhausting.

Me: It’s actually been amazing. I wish you could see it.

I paused before hitting Send and deleted the last sentence. Jonathan and Caitlin had one thing in common: Both of them would have hated the quiet, sleepy towns where this trip had taken me. Right now, we were smack in the middle of France’s “empty diagonal,”

a large swath of the country whose youth fled to the cities for jobs and amenities, leaving these ancient villages and towns to simply age out and die. Places like Beynac managed to hang on due to the wine and foodie tourism draw of Bordeaux and Périgord. It was a haven for the gastro-tourists like Niall and myself, but it would have been deadly dull to either Caitlin or Jonathan. But while Caitlin would have made the best of things and just been happy to leave Westport behind for a week, Jonathan would have groused at every turn. I could not, in good faith, wish that he was here.

Me: I’m really enjoying myself.

That, at least, was the truth.

Jonathan: That’s good. Let me know when you fly in, and we’ll meet up.

Me: I don’t think so, but thanks for the offer.

I set the phone aside and forced myself to breathe. It wasn’t a kind answer, and nothing like the one he wanted, but it was the best I had to offer and better than he deserved.