Chapter Thirty-One: Blocking Ghosts

                                        

                                              

It had been weeks. Weeks of cautious texts in the morning, late‑night calls when the house was quiet, and small, clumsy kindnesses that felt bigger than they looked. He still wasn't back home, not yet, but the sharpness between us had softened into something almost gentle. We were learning, painfully and patiently, how to speak again without raising old ghosts.
Some nights, when the kids were asleep, we'd meet halfway in conversation: stories about work, about Jimmy's latest drawing obsession, about Alice's new friends, about Lola's growing collection of teeth. We weren't pretending nothing had happened but we weren't drowning in it either and in that space, something hesitant but real had started to grow.
Then one Friday, we decided, almost shyly, to have lunch together. Not at home, not in a restaurant thick with weekend noise, but near his office: a small place with scratched wooden tables and the smell of grilled bread and fresh herbs. The kind of place you could sit in the corner and pretend, just for an hour, that you weren't trying to stitch something broken back together.
He'd chosen the table carefully —far from the door, near the window. When I arrived, he stood as though it was automatic, and for a breath, I remembered being a teen, walking toward him in a borrowed dress and seeing that same look in his eyes.
The lunch itself was quiet, but in the best way. We talked about everything and nothing. His eyes warmed when I told him about a small batch of perfume oils I'd finally blended right, a softness in his face that made me feel seen, truly seen, even across the small table.
"I'm telling you," I said, half-laughing, "I think this might be the first time I didn't nearly burn the entire house down making a perfume."
Thomas grinned. "That only happened once."
"It happened twice," I corrected.
He raised an eyebrow. "Technicalities."
I gave him a playful glare. "And whose fault was it the second time?"
"I maintain it was the dog's fault," he shot back, completely deadpan.
"We don't even have a dog, Thomas."
He paused, then shrugged, still trying to look serious. "Then it was probably Jimmy. He looks guilty."
I couldn't help but laugh, shaking my head. "You're hopeless."
His grin softened into something tender. "For the record, even if you burnt the whole street down, I'd still think you're brilliant."
He reached over once, almost hesitant, and brushed a crumb from my cheek, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. My chest tightened at the familiarity of it, that old, aching sweetness.
"Sweetheart, I need to tell you something," Thomas began, his voice low and careful, like he was still figuring out how much of the weight he wanted to lay between us. His fingers tapped once against his leg, an old nervous habit. "This morning, Laura called me. Or at least, she tried to."
The name was a slap. "What?" The word shot out of me, sharp and high. My heart lurched up into my throat before I could stop it. The air between us tightened.
He immediately lifted both hands, palms up, not in defense, but in something quieter like surrender, "I called my lawyer as soon as I realized it was her and hung up. She's on probation," he said. "Still waiting for the indictment. The fraud investigation is... bigger than we thought. Financial misconduct, wire fraud, conspiracy. My lawyer says there are federal charges coming." Thomas went on, voice low but urgent, like he needed me to hear every word. "He explained what our options were, and I asked if I could file for a restraining order. He said technically... I can't. Not yet. There hasn't been a direct threat or credible fear of harm, just an unsolicited contact. So legally, it wouldn't meet the standard for a protective order at this point."