October, The Odd Ones

I chose to meet at the park.

Not the one with the playground and dog walkers and sticky-fingered children, but our park—the quieter one, tucked behind the rows of old olive trees, where the benches were slightly crooked and the world always smelled faintly of earth and rosemary.

It was the place we used to walk to when we didn't want to talk but wanted to be near each other anyway. It felt like the right setting for this. Neutral ground for something that didn't feel neutral at all.

I saw him before he saw me, standing near one of the benches, scanning the paths like he wasn't sure which direction I'd come from. He was wearing those usual soft tones he always gravitated toward—beige, amber, something muted and forgettable but safe. Like he was afraid of standing out, of being noticed too much.

When he spotted me, he lifted a hand in a half-wave, unsure whether to smile or apologize first.

"Hi, October," he said, handing me the tea like a quiet peace offering. "I thought I was late, took a bit longer than I thought—the barista was... talkative. Kept asking if I wanted something sweet with it, then laughed and said something about not needing more sweetness." He gave a small, baffled shrug, like he was still trying to make sense of it. "Then something about working out—I don't know. Weird questions for tea, right?"

I nearly laughed. I almost did. Typical. Even now—so clueless sometimes. The man could dismantle financial reports like second nature but couldn't tell when someone was hitting on him with neon signs.

I almost softened then. Almost. But I didn't come here for that.

I shifted, the paper cup warming my fingers, and looked him dead in the eye. "What happened exactly the night you didn't come home and went to save her cat?"

No soft openings. No pleasantries. I'd rehearsed too many versions of this in my head, watered down, polite, indirect—and I was done with that now. His expression faltered, lips parting slightly like he'd been ready for small talk and I'd thrown him into deep water instead.

"You didn't leave because of some emergency," I said, "Or someone dying. Or a crisis you couldn't ignore." I stopped to gather my thoughts, "You didn't leave because the world was burning. You left because she called. And her cat was missing."

The words hung there between us—absurd and heavy at the same time. They echoed off the walls of everything we'd built and everything he'd cracked open that night.

"And then you called me callous hearted for being upset!!" I added.

And he stood there, caught in it, with nothing left to hide behind. He didn't defend himself. Just nodded slowly.

"Okay," he began, his voice low, uneven, as if each word cost him something. "So... weeks before your birthday, something started gnawing at me—this slow, creeping guilt. I kept pushing it down, telling myself I had everything under control, but it was always there, just under the surface. It was about how much time I was spending away from you... and how much I was enjoying being at work. Not just working, but specifically working with Laura."

"It wasn't only that she was efficient or helpful—it was that being around her seemed to restore something in me. She made things easier, yes, but more than that... being close to her made me feel like I mattered again at the firm. Like I was finally back in Dad's good graces. He looked at me differently when she and I worked together—as if I was capable again, like I was finally the son he expected. I didn't want to admit how much I craved that. The recognition, the power. It felt good. I felt like a good CEO—sharp, excellent, important. Someone people respected, maybe even envied.

But even then, I told myself it wasn't wrong. You were my wife—you were the personal part of my life, the person I came home to, the person I loved. Laura was in the professional part, making my job smoother and my worklife happier and easier. I thought I was drawing a clean line. I convinced myself that I was doing nothing wrong because—physically—"

He looked at me then, really looked, like he needed me to see something in his eyes. "Physically, I've never been with another woman. Only you. Always you. That hasn't changed."

I nodded stiffly. That used to mean something. Not so much anymore. He hesitated, the weight of it hanging in the silence.

" But still...I felt guilty. Guilty for missing so many dinners with you. Guilty for how often I looked at the clock and didn't rush home. Guilty because even if nothing happened between Laura and me, I thought that I was probably letting something slip."

He swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair. "I told Jimmy we can plan something special for you together. He was so excited. I made this whole list of things you love: your favorite flowers, tickets to that revival of The Sound of Music you mentioned months ago. Dinner at a new restaurant, and a cake with the kids once we got back, called my mom to stay with them while we were out—everything was planned."

His voice cracked, eyes flickering with a desperate kind of hope. "I wanted to make it right. I thought if I could just make one perfect moment, maybe I could erase the rest." He looked away, guilt pressing down like a weight. "But instead, I screwed it up. I hurt you. And that... that kills me every day. I wanted it to be memorable."

"Oh, it was memorable," I muttered bitterly.

"I know," he whispered, voice thick with the weight of something he'd clearly been holding back for a long time. "Everything was ready. I had the cake, the reservation, the whole evening planned down to the last detail except the necklace hasn't arrived yet, but it was coming."

He paused, eyes distant. "But that day... everything just collapsed on me. Work exploded. I made a massive miscalculation—something stupid, something I should have caught. The quarterly projections were off by millions. Completely off. The whole presentation fell apart in front of the board. And it was my name on it. My numbers. My responsibility."

He swallowed hard, jaw tightening, the shame still fresh in his voice. "My dad—he didn't even wait until the meeting ended. He ripped into me right there, in front of everyone. No filters, no professionalism—just full-blown humiliation. Like I was a child again, standing there with my mistakes on display for everyone to see."

He exhaled shakily, hands curling slightly as if trying to brace against the memory. "I froze. I couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Everything went silent in my head, and I just... sat there. Paralyzed. And then—of all people—Laura stepped in."

He glanced at me quickly, as if to gauge my reaction, then looked away. "She didn't hesitate. She took over the meeting, picked up the mess I'd left, started walking the board through what could be salvaged. She was calm. Controlled. Like the disaster didn't faze her. And then she did something I didn't expect—she took some of the blame. Said there had been a miscommunication between us. Said she should've double-checked the final numbers. She didn't have to do that, but she did. Just to give me a chance to breathe."

He looked back at me, his eyes heavy with guilt. "I told the board later that it was my mistake—that it wasn't on her—but by then the damage was done. She was the one who saved the day."

He looked down at his hands like he couldn't stand to see them. "By then, it was already too late. The dinner was supposed to be at seven—I checked my phone at eight-thirty. I was still at the office, sweating through my shirt, trying to fix numbers my mistakes and I told her she did enough she could go home. The show was over. I didn't even have your flowers. I felt like a fucking failure—as a CEO, as a husband, as a man. I knew you didn't call because you didn't know about the dinner and the show, only the cake with the kids to which I was already late."

He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated, like he wanted to claw his way out of his own skin. "I was driving home. I swear to God, I was. I even rehearsed what I was going to say. I was going to beg you to forgive me for being late, try to salvage something. at least have a cake as a family"

His voice dropped to a raw whisper. "And then she called."

I stared at him, my chest tight, waiting.

"She was hysterical. I mean sobbing. Couldn't breathe properly. She said she lost her cat. She didn't know the neighborhood, didn't know what to do. She was on speaker, and I could hear the panic—like she was going to collapse in the street. And I—" He swallowed.

I scoffed. "you went to save the damsel and her feline."

"Yeah...I told myself your birthday was already ruined, so what's the harm in one detour. I mean I thought I owed her after what she did for me."

"And that's when you called me," I said.

"Yes," he admitted. "I could have said just work but I couldn't lie to you, and I was so frustrated that you seemed like you didn't believe me. Like saving her cat was some kind of pretext to go to her house."

"It took you hours Thomas!" I snapped.

"Because I didn't want to be alone with her!" he said, the words tumbling out in a rush, uneven and breathless, "So I called Charly and Leo, they live close by, and asked them to meet me there—to help out, to make it look like I needed backup. But really... I just needed people around. I didn't want us to be alone."

"What do you mean?" I asked, the words quieter than I intended.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face, his eyes darting away from mine. "This wasn't the office. There was no desk between us. No fluorescent lights. No formal agenda or email thread to pin it on. It was just me and her in her space. It was her neighborhood. Her home. Her invitation. it felt inapproapriate, it felt like crossing a boundary."

I let the silence stretch for a beat, then pierced it. My voice was sharp, clipped. "You think that you didn't already cross a line?"

His face fell, like he'd hoped I wouldn't say it out loud. Like part of him still needed to hear it to believe it.

"I know now that I did," he said quietly. "Then... I was convincing myself it didn't. I kept drawing these invisible boundaries in my head. 'It's just a text.' 'It's just a coffee.' 'It's just helping her out.' But each time, I moved the line further. And each time, I told myself I hadn't crossed anything."

I shook my head slowly, trying to understand the mental gymnastics, the willful blindness. "And after you found the cat and the guys had left?"

He looked up at me then, guilt sitting heavy in his eyes. "She asked me to come inside."

I didn't look away. "And?"

"I said no."

"Really?"

"Yes." He straightened his shoulders, almost like he was bracing for disbelief. "Because I knew. Walking through that door... being alone in her house after everything that had already happened? It would've been a betrayal. Even without touching her. Even if we sat on opposite ends of the room and didn't say a word."

I stared at him, carefully, measuring the shape of the truth in his voice. "Were you scared you wouldn't resist?"

"No," he said. "It was never like that. I was scared because it already felt too intimate. Because I was already feeling guilty. That would've just sealed it."

"You were angry when you called to explain why you were late. You didn't even sound sorry."

"I was angry," he said quietly. "But I wasn't angry at you—I was angry at myself. Frustrated. And then you kept saying, 'A cat? A cat, Thomas,' like—because it was just a cat—it didn't matter."

"What? I didn't—"

"I know," he said quickly, cutting me off, shaking his head. "I know you didn't mean it like that. But in that moment—I was already furious with myself, frustrated with you, angry at everything. I felt like I was failing you, failing my family, failing everyone. And this stupid part of me thought—maybe if I help find the cat, I can make at least one thing right in this complete disaster of a day."

His voice faltered for a second. "I know I messed it up. I was driving high on frustration, and instead of handling it properly, I took it out on you. I'm sorry. I am trully sorry. I was wrong, all along."

"What about her picture?"

His brow furrowed. "What picture?"

"In your phone."

Realization hit, his mouth opening slightly. "I swear, I didn't do that. I didn't even notice—I wasn't paying attention. After you left, my father asked me to hand her the phone to focus on work and I just... gave it to her without thinking. She changed it. I didn't notice until later."

A long, bitter silence stretched between us before I asked, "Did you... complain about me to her?"

His eyes snapped back to mine. "Never. I promise you—I never talked about you. Not once. Not even in passing. Every time she brought you up—'Isn't your wife waiting?'—or tried to open that door, I shut it down. I didn't vent about you. I didn't use her as some kind of emotional crutch or an escape hatch from our marriage."

He dragged a hand through his hair, the frustration in his voice turning inward. "I didn't confide in her. I didn't sit there telling her my life, building some secret version of happiness with her. It wasn't emotional—it was selfish. Ego. Weakness. And none of those excuses matter because I still made the choices I made."

I swallowed. "But you wouldn't stop her if she said something nasty about me."

His jaw tightened. "I'd change the subject. I hate confrontations—you know that. And she didn't start like that, not really. She got worse toward the end. But I should've shut that down properly. I didn't. And that's on me. I am sorry."

"I don't get it, Thomas," I whispered. "I thought I gave you love. Attention. I thought I gave you enough."

"You did," he said softly, like it hurt to say it. "You absolutely did. None of this is a reflection of you. It's me. My mess. My damage. My mistakes. And I'm going to be the one fighting for us, whether you believe me now or not. Even if you sign the damn papers—I'll still be here, showing you, every day, what I should've done before."

"When did you put the plaque under our tree?"

He looked almost shy, rubbing the back of his neck like a teenager caught doing something embarrassing. "You... saw that?"

"Yeah," I nodded slowly. "When?"

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "After Lola was born."

I blinked, surprised. "Really?"

He nodded, looking down for a moment like he was trying to untangle the memory. "I was with you at the hospital, remember? But my head... I wasn't fully there. I was already thinking about work, about how I needed to start bringing in more now that Lola was here. And of course—" he huffed, rolling his eyes at himself, "—Dad wouldn't stop texting me, telling me to 'be a man' and get back to work. Said this wasn't exactly my first kid, so I should stop acting like it was a big deal."

I rolled my eyes too, matching his frustration. That sounded exactly like James.

He gave a dry laugh. "You were pissed at me for checking my phone while I was supposed to be with you—and you were right. You were completely right. But... I just felt trapped in it. Like I was failing at everything. Failing you, failing work, failing at being the kind of man I kept thinking I was supposed to be."

I stayed silent, watching him. Letting him keep going.

"So once I made sure you and the baby were okay, I went back to the office. Same old garbage. Dad breathing down my neck...." His jaw tightened. "And then—Mom called. Said she was on her way to the hospital with the kids to meet their new sister."

He looked at me again, more tender now. "I left work. Didn't even tell anyone. Just left. And when I got there... you were asleep." He swallowed. "I don't know how to explain it. But it was like standing in the middle of heaven. I sat down next to you, rested my head on your shoulder like I used to when we were younger. And you—" he smiled faintly "—you smelled like ... October. As usual, you smelled amazing."

I tried to look unaffected, but that part cut through me.

He exhaled slowly, shaking his head, like the words were tangled inside him. "I don't know... standing there, I kept thinking of that Baudelaire's poem—Le Parfum.

'Parfum, musique et couleur se répondent.'

'Il est des parfums frais comme des chairs d'enfants, doux comme les hautbois, verts comme les prairies.'

(Scent, music, and color correspond.
There are perfumes fresh like children's flesh, sweet like the sound of oboes, green like the prairies.)

That's what it felt like, standing there. Everything else—noise, seasons, even memory itself—was slipping away. But you... your scent stayed. Like you were sewn into the world itself."

I looked down at my hands.

"A few days later, I made arrangements. Talked to a friend. Got the plaque made. I wanted it there for her first birthday, so we could bring the kids and have a little moment, you know?"

I didn't even know how to feel anymore. The old me—the me from before—would've been over the moon about this, laughing, squealing, breathless that he was finally talking about his feelings, finally being sweet.

But is it really sweet if he never mentioned it before? If he never thought I deserved to hear it back then? Because the way I remember that day is nothing like this pretty picture he's painting. I was tired, worn down from carrying too much on my own, and yes—he was there—but not with me. He kept glancing at his phone, checking his watch like he had somewhere better to be. It's funny how two people can sit in the same moment and live entirely different versions of it.

I looked away sacred of softening, the ache rising in my throat, and changed the subject before I unraveled. "So... do you have a job yet?"

His mouth twitched into a smile. "I do, actually."

My eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What?"

"I'm opening a dog shelter."

I blinked. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. I once told Joseph how I'd always loved animals, how I used to dream of having a pet when I was a kid, but I was never allowed. And later, when I was finally old enough to make that choice for myself, life just got in the way. I never had the time. Never had the energy.

So one day, he surprised me. He took me to visit different types of animal shelters. Suggested it could 'loosen whatever medieval sword I've apparently got lodged in my spine.' Said I needed reminding that I'm not the center of the universe—that there's a lot of pain out there, and not all of it's mine. We went to places full of cats curled up in corners, blinking slowly like they already knew too much about being left behind. We went to shelters for dogs too, with rows of wagging tails and hopeful eyes, some barking, some too tired to even try. He even found a rescue that took in rabbits, ferrets, the odd bird with missing feathers—like a whole world of forgotten lives under one roof."

He rubbed his palms together awkwardly, but his smile was genuine. "And... I kind of fell in love with this one. Found this run-down place no one cared about, made the necessary steps, and... I'm the owner now. But also the worker. Cleaning kennels, mopping floors, walking dogs... all of it."

A laugh, small but real, escaped me. "What did you name the shelter?"

"The Marigold"

...The birth flower of October.

Author's Note

Hello beautiful people!

Thank you for sticking around and being patient with me, it means the world.

For some reason, 카지노후기 isn't letting me post updates or announcements on my profile but I'm finally back, guess what? I submitted my thesis!! Finally! I can't even tell you how relieved I am. I honestly don't remember the last time I had a proper night's sleep, a nap, or even just sat down to relax without feeling guilty.
My plan for now is to finish around five more chapters from October's 온라인카지노게임line, and then get back to it to finish it completely, and after that... maybe we'll head to June. I'm letting the muse lead the way, so we'll see where it takes us 💛