Chapter Twenty: Notre Arbre

                                        

                                              

Thomas stood up slowly, like the weight of everything between us was pressing down on his joints. His eyes met mine for a long, quiet moment. I could see the yearning there—he wanted to hug me, maybe even kiss my forehead like he used to when things were simpler, when love wasn't layered with so much pain. But he didn't move. His hands twitched slightly at his sides, then curled into fists and dropped.
"I should head back to the hotel," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, rough at the edges.
"You're still staying there?" I asked, brow furrowing. I tried to keep the judgment out of my tone, but it slipped in anyway. "I mean... I know you come every night to see the kids, but that's not exactly stable."
He gave a small, tired laugh, then rubbed the back of his neck like he was trying to physically erase the shame. "Yeah... I was hoping this was just temporary. I told myself it was. But the more I reflect on what I did... the more therapy I go to... the more I realize there's no temporary fix for the kind of damage I've done. Not to you. Not to the kids. Not to myself. so I have been looking for houses close by."
I nodded slowly, my arms crossed without thinking. A kind of shield. He gave me a sad smile, the kind that said he understood, then turned and walked away—his footsteps muffled by the carpet, his shoulders slightly hunched like he was carrying a version of himself he was still learning how to let go of.
And I stood there, rooted in place, listening to the silence he left behind. I wasn't just angry. That emotion was still there, simmering low and bitter, but it had been eclipsed by something heavier—grief. Not the kind that comes all at once, loud and obvious, but the slow, creeping kind that clings to everything. I felt it in my limbs, in the way I stood still even though I wanted to run.
I held the papers in my hands—stiff, sterile things—and thought about how I would have given anything for him to show up for me. In any shape or form. A word. A touch. Just proof that I still mattered. But he didn't. I'm afraid my heart is too bruised now, too tired from breaking open and stitching itself back together again in silence.
**
In the weeks that followed, Thomas continued to bring the kids home just before dinner. He always had—it was one of those quiet rhythms we fell into, an unspoken agreement neither of us ever revisited. Just the sound of the door opening and there he was: two backpacks slung over one shoulder, dinner in hand, his face wearing that gentle, unreadable expression.
The dinners were always homemade now. That surprised me. Before everything fell apart, he'd never cooked a day in his life. So he was either watching YouTube tutorials or—God help me—someone was teaching him. But I didn't ask. I didn't want to know. He brought dinner for all of us, laid it on the counter, and never stayed. My parents never invited him in, and that was by my design. I didn't want to blur the lines, didn't want to confuse the kids more than they already were.
While I set the table or talked with my mother, he took care of the kids—helped Jimmy with his homework, played with Alice and Lola in the living room, his laughter a soft background hum I tried not to pay attention to. I watched them sometimes from the kitchen, trying to stay detached. Trying not to feel.
Then, like always, when it was time to go, he lingered near the doorway. He'd rub his palms together like he wasn't sure what to do with them, glance back at the kids, and then at me—but never for long. Just a flicker. Just enough to make something ache, then gone again.
"Goodnight, October," he said softly, voice warm and low like he didn't want to wake anything fragile. "Call me if you need anything."
I nodded automatically. But I didn't want to nod. I didn't want to be quiet anymore.