October, The Odd Ones

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."

My stomach tightened; the adrenaline made my pulse roar in my ears. My voice came out sharp, clipped. "And?" I pressed. "What does she want?"

His mouth twisted, something like guilt and disgust flickering across his face. "She's asking for my help," he said finally. "Specifically, she wants me to testify as a character witness. To give a statement, maybe even an affidavit, about her professional conduct before things spiraled, to help her defense build a narrative of prior good character. She thinks it could mitigate the charges or get her a lighter sentence if it goes to sentencing."

I let out a breath that tasted bitter on my tongue. Of course she did. Even now, after everything, she was still reaching for him.

"And?" I asked again, softer this time. Colder. I needed him to say it, needed to hear it aloud, not just because I didn't trust her but because some wounded part of me still needed proof that he'd chosen me.

"And nothing," he said simply, the words steady, almost tired. "I said no. I'm not doing anything for her. But she keeps texting, from different numbers. I keep blocking them."

My shoulders sagged, relief and anger crashing into each other until I couldn't tell which feeling burned hotter. Part of me wanted to lean across the table and hold his hand, to thank him. The other part wanted to ask, Why are we even here? Why did it get this far?

His eyes met mine, open, vulnerable. "I'm so sorry for putting us in this position," he whispered, the words rough. "I promise, I will do anything to gain your trust again. I actually thought about keeping this from you so you wouldn't have to deal with it. But I remembered... we said we'd be honest. We said transparency and communication, no matter how ugly. So... I decided to tell you."

I stared at him, pulse thudding in my ears. "Okay," I said after a moment, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. Confused. Relieved. Happy he'd told me, that he was acting how he should  and at the same time, still quietly furious that this was our life now. That she had this power, even now, to turn an ordinary lunch into a battlefield.

"She's been texting from different numbers. I keep blocking them, every time. But they keep coming and I want you to see them. I don't want there to be anything you don't know."

He pulled out his phone, unlocked it with a quick swipe, and held it out to me. "Here. Read them yourself." I hesitated for a breath, a small, stubborn part of me wanting to say I didn't need to,  but I took the phone anyway. My thumb hovered over the screen, then began to scroll.

Thomas, please. Just hear me out. One coffee. Five minutes.

You know me better than anyone. You know I'm not that person they say I am.

I miss talking to you. Just your voice would calm me down. Please.

My mouth tasted metallic, blood and anger and something older — fear maybe, or hurt that still hadn't fully healed.

They're making me out to be a monster. You know that's not true. Please, Thomas. Just tell them who I really am.

Fine. Ignore me. I understand. But you were the only real friend I had.

And lower down, more desperate:

I'm losing everything. You can't just watch that happen, can you?

My thumb stopped on that last one, my chest tightening until it almost hurt. It wasn't just the words; it was the mix of pleading, guilt‑tripping, and that soft thread of flirtation,  a hand brushing old wounds I'd tried to stitch closed. I looked up at him. Thomas's face was pale, set in lines of frustration and quiet disgust.

"I keep blocking them," he repeated, softer now. "Every number that pops up. I wanted you to see that. I'm not hiding anything, not anymore."

For a heartbeat, everything felt raw and cracked open between us: the betrayal that had once burned so hot, the guilt that still hovered behind his eyes, the stubborn, messy tenderness that refused to die.

I let out a breath I hadn't realised I was holding. "Okay," I said, quietly. "Thank you. For showing me."

He hesitated, eyes darkening, the weight of something else settling on his shoulders.

"That's not all," he said.

My stomach dropped. "Oh my god, Thomas... what?"

His gaze flickered away, jaw tightening. "Dad," he said finally, voice rough. "He's in the hospital. Beth went to see him, but apparently it didn't go well. Mum... refuses to go until I talk to her. And I don't want that. I don't know how to face either of them right now."

I paused, hands resting on a little pink cardigan, looking up at him. His face was pale, tired, something vulnerable showing through the lines I'd learned by heart over the years.

He went on, words coming out rough and uneven, like they'd been carried too long.

"I want to focus on us," he said. "On you. On the kids. I don't want to keep orbiting around him. But he's my father, and now he's alone, sick, lying in a hospital bed because of everything he built catching up to him... and I don't know if it's heart or cowardice that makes me still care."

I reached across the table, my hand warm over his. "Thomas... if you need that closure, then go," I said softly. "Go talk to him one last time, for yourself, for your own peace and if you don't, if it would only open wounds that haven't healed—then it's okay to leave it alone too. You don't owe him anything. Do what you need to do, for yourself, and for us. What did your therapist say?"

His gaze flickered up to mine, eyes dark with something like relief and fear tangled together.

" That it's normal to struggle with those feelings, love, guilt, hatred, all mixed together. I don't have to force myself to feel only one thing. Take my time. I am allowed to," he replied gently.

For a breath, I didn't speak. I could see it all on his face: love tangled up with anger, guilt that never quite let go, the small boy he used to be still asking to be seen. I knew there was nothing perfect I could say to fix it. So instead, I did the only thing that felt true: I reached out, warm hand over his, thumb brushing lightly against the edge of his wrist.

He looked down at our joined hands across the table, and I saw something in his shoulders loosen, just a little. For a few breaths, we sat like that in the soft midday light, surrounded by the low hum of clinking glasses and quiet conversation. 

Beth had texted me earlier in the week: "You need a night off. August and I insist. No arguments."

I hadn't realised quite how much I needed it until we were already halfway through our second round of drinks , the sweet, slightly cheap kind that comes in chipped glasses, sticky at the rims. Laughter from other tables blurred softly around us, mixing with the scent of fried calamari, old wood, and sea breeze.

The place was small, paint peeling in places, but it pulsed with life: fairy lights sagging overhead, shadows dancing across walls scribbled with marker hearts and names. August showed up late, naturally,  hair wind‑tangled, her coat slung carelessly over one shoulder, the collar of her shirt brushing the ink on her collarbone. The tattoos suited her: a little fierce, a little defiant, nothing like the softer August I remembered from before. For a second, I wondered if it was that cheating ex who carved out this new edge in her, leaving something that still burned quietly behind her easy smile.

"Sorry, traffic," she announced dramatically, dropping into her chair. "But it's fine because now I'm here, so we can officially begin."

Beth snorted. "We were perfectly capable of beginning without you."

August arched an eyebrow. "Yes, but it wouldn't have been as funny — or as pretty."

Beth raised her glass in mock salute. "Touché."

For a while it was easy, laughter tumbling over itself, plates of fries disappearing faster than we'd admit. We traded stories about impossible bosses, about Jimmy's recent growth spurt that left every single pair of jeans embarrassingly too short. Then Beth, wine glass tilted lazily between her fingers, started telling stories about her travels.

"Lisbon," she began, eyes dancing, "I stayed in this hostel where the walls were so thin, I could hear the French couple next door arguing and making up, in very graphic details, three times a night. By the second night, I was practically narrating it to myself like a soap opera: 'Ah, now she's throwing the shoe... oh wait, now she's forgiven him. Ah, that was fast.'"

August burst out laughing, nearly choking on her drink. "Beth!"

"And Morocco," Beth went on, waving a hand, "overnight train, top bunk, some poor guy fell on me at 3 a.m. I panicked and offered him a cookie. Don't ask why, it felt polite."

"Oh my God," I managed, wiping tears of laughter. "Did he take it?"

"He did," Beth said proudly. "Then apologised every five minutes until sunrise. Best travel friend I never saw again."

August, face still flushed from laughing, turned sly. "Alright, enough about strange men, what about familiar ones? Tell us about high school. What were those two like?" She pointed at me with a wicked grin.

Beth smirked, leaning back. "Oh, October? Everyone knew. She was ridiculously obvious about Thomas. Changed her route between classes to 'accidentally' bump into him. Signed up for the chess club for two weeks and didn't even know the pieces."

"Hey!" I protested, my face burning. "I tried!"

Beth ignored me, eyes warm. "And you know what? Back then, we all thought it was October chasing him. But now... when I look back? Thomas was just as bad, only quieter. Subtle. He'd sit where he could see her across the courtyard. Once, she forgot her lunch, and he claimed he 'wasn't hungry' so she'd take his."

August's grin widened. "Wait, wait... so stoic Thomas was actually soft?"

"Oh, painfully," Beth said, laughing. "One time, October caught a cold, and Thomas went to every class she had that day to hand‑deliver tissues. Didn't say a word, just put them on her desk and walked off."

My heart did a strange, small ache at the memory — half‑forgotten moments that meant nothing and everything. August leaned closer, chin in hand. "So you two were basically doomed from the start?"

"I guess so," I murmured, voice catching just slightly. "I never really... saw anyone else."

It was true, even now, after the bruises love had left on us, after tears and silence and cold nights. In every room, I'd always still looked for Thomas first. Then the young waiter came by again, curls falling into his eyes, smile hovering between polite and maybe‑something‑more.

"Another drink?" he asked, gaze flicking to me. "Or maybe something sweeter?"

August elbowed me under the table so hard I nearly dropped my glass. Beth raised both brows, barely hiding a smirk. I felt heat rush to my face, stumbling over my words. "Oh, um... thank you, but I'm okay," I managed, voice embarrassingly small.

August leaned in, voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Looking is not illegal, October."

Beth added, softer, "And besides, you didn't even see him, did you?"

I laughed, helpless. "No," I admitted. "Not really."

Outside, the sky had deepened into navy, the air warm even after sunset. For the first time in so long, I felt like I'd stepped outside the tight coil of worry wrapped around my chest. I excused myself from the table, the warmth of laughter and clinking glasses fading behind me as I made my way toward the restroom. The soft hum of conversation and music filled the air, but all I could focus on was the knot tightening in my stomach.

Just as I reached the hallway, the warm glow of the restaurant dimmed into shadows.

A voice stopped me cold.

"October."

I turned sharply, my heart skipping a beat. "I thought I'd find you," she said softly, as if she'd been waiting.

I took a step back, my breath catching, "Laura? What are you doing here?"