Part 1 (1/2)

The Story of Us.

D. Nichole King.

Chapter 1.

Present Day.

8:22 p.m.

I open the oven to check the chicken cordon bleu again. I'm sure it's dry by now. I close the door and reach for the gla.s.s of wine I poured thirty minutes ago. Maverick's wine gla.s.s is full, untouched, and probably warm. The candle on the table is still burning, and it crosses my mind to blow it out before the wax runs down to nothing.

I walk over to the table, blow out the candle, and top off my own wine with Mav's. As I do, my attention slides to my phone. At least he texted me, I think, reading it one more time.

Meeting running late. Be home when I can.

He doesn't have control of the meeting, of course. He's the low man on the totem pole at the firm and that comes with certain expectations, including late hours when everyone else gets to go home. That may or may not be the case tonight. I just wish it didn't have to be this night.

Especially after what happened this morning.

My fingers move over the keyboard of my phone, responding to the text he sent fifteen minutes ago. Again, once I have my message typed out, I delete it. Now isn't the time for explanations or ”I'm sorry,” and chances are he's turned his phone to silent like he does during work hours.

I take my wine and phone into the living room and curl up in the armchair. Morocco, our overweight black cat, jumps onto my lap and nudges me with his head. He and I have spent many late nights alone. He seems to think this is our routine now.

”Don't get used to it,” I tell him, smoothing my palm down the length of his back to his tail. He purrs immediately. ”This is only temporary ... I hope.”

I'm referring to our current situation. Us living in this cramped apartment, Maverick working late, and me taking summer cla.s.ses because I didn't return to school last semester. I'm better now, but I just don't feel ready yet. Honestly, I'd rather wait until fall semester to return. Maverick insisted though, and I didn't have the energy to say no.

”I need to get settled into this job, Alieya, and you need to do something to keep your mind off of...” He'd trailed off, because we both knew the rest, and he didn't want to bring it up, for fear of my going dark again.

Law school and then the firm have taken their toll on him. This last year has taken its toll on the both of us.

I glance at the textbooks on the floor, the ones I abandoned to make dinner. I have a term paper due on Monday and an exam on Thursday. I should be studying instead of sittting here, but Morocco is comfortable. I don't want to disturb him. Plus, I haven't finished my second gla.s.s of wine yet.

My phone rings, and I knock Morocco in the head as I reach for it. He's only fazed for a moment before he nestles back into my lap. He'll expect some extra love from me though.

I look at the name. It's not Mav.

”Hey, Finley,” I answer, masking the disappointment in my voice. She'll know; she always does.

”Still not home, huh?” she says, and I can hear her frown. We're so in tune with each other. It's what happens when you've had the same best friend for twenty-two years.

”No, and I think I've ruined the chicken.”

”But you have wine, right?”

”On my second gla.s.s.”

She snorts. ”Second? Girl, what is wrong with you? I taught you better than that.”

I smile. Finn is a wineaholic in a good way. Her parents are connoisseurs, and their daughter will follow in their footsteps. Because of her, I've never tasted bad wine.

”Do I need to come over?” she asks.

She lives two hours away, and we already met for brunch today. ”No, silly. I'll be fine.”

”You shouldn't be alone on your one-year wedding anniversary. That has to be a bad omen. I mean, who's going to eat that disgusting frozen cake?”

”I'm not alone,” I insist. ”I have Morocco. Morocco likes cake.”

Finn is quiet for a moment, and I can guess the face she's making. Her mind totally went in the wrong direction.

”We're cuddling on the chair,” I say to the eye roll on the other end of the phone.

”Cat cuddles aren't nearly as good as man cuddles. Do we need to have this conversation again?”

”No, no. I'm good on the semantics, thank you.”

”You know, they make items for the specific needs of lonely women like you.”

I feel my cheeks redden. ”I'm not that lonely.”

”Maybe not yet. But if this continues, you might be.” She says it half joking and half not. If I'm not careful, I'll have a large box from G.o.d knows where of ”items” to keep me company, sent courtesy of my BFF. Good Lord, what would Maverick think?

”It won't continue. He's only been at the firm for twenty-five months. It'll get better.” I bite the inside of my cheek. ”It has to.”

He promised.

I don't have to see her to know she's nodding empathetically on the other end of the phone. We've had this conversation before, and as much as she wants to believe me, she doesn't. Her best guess is two more years of husbandless nights.

That mixed with my own ghosts is a scenario I won't be able to endure. The newest one still haunts me daily.

”Are you sure you don't want me to come over?” she asks. ”I have a fuzzbuster. I can be there in one hour flat.”

”No way. I won't let you get in a car accident for my sake. Besides, he'll be here soon.” The clock on the wall reads that he's only an hour late. ”I have homework to keep me busy.”

”Wow. Fun. Sounds like the perfect anniversary date to me: you, your cat, and The History of Drawing.”

Morocco nudges my hand, because I've stopped petting him. His head perks up and green cat eyes gleam with discontent. I rub him behind the ears to pacify him.

”My cat and the History of Drawing have never let me down.” Finley knows I'm lying. Morocco can be an a.s.shole, and I earned the worst grade of my college career in The History of Drawing, which is why I'm retaking it. Visual arts might be my thing, but the history of it is not.

”I guess you'd better get to that rocking night, then. But if you need me, you call, okay? No matter what time.”

”I will. Thanks, Finn.”