The way *** whole is misspelled in red spray paint across the back door of

Bib’s makes me think of my mother.

She would always insert a brief pause between syllables, making it

sound like two separate words. I wanted to laugh every time I heard it, but it

was hard to find the humor in it as a child when I was always the recipient

of the hurled insult.

“Ass… whole,” Darin mutters. “Had to be a kid. Most adults know how

to spell that word.”

“You’d be surprised.” I touch the paint, but it doesn’t stick to my fingers.

Whoever did this must have done it right after we closed last night.

“Do you think the misspelling was intentional?” he asks. “Are they

suggesting you’re so much of an asshole that you’re a whole entire ***?”

“Why do you assume they were targeting me? They could have been

targeting you or Brad.”

“It’s your restaurant.” Darin takes off his jacket and uses it to pry a large

shard of exposed broken glass out of the window. “Maybe it was a

disgruntled employee.”

“Do I have disgruntled employees?” I can’t think of a single person on

payroll who would do something like this. The last person I’d had quit was

five months ago, and she left on good terms after getting a college degree.

“There was that guy who did the dishes before you hired Brad. What was

his name? He was named after some kind of mineral or something—it was

super weird.”

“Quartz,” I say. “It was a nickname.” I haven’t thought about that guy in

so long. I doubt he’s holding a grudge against me after all this time. I fired

him right after we opened because I found out he wasn’t washing the dishes

unless he could actually see food on them. Glasses, plates, silverware—

anything that came back to the kitchen from a table looking fairly clean,

he’d just put it straight on the drying rack.

If I wouldn’t have fired him, he would have gotten us shut down by the

health department.

“You should call the police,” Darin says. “We’ll have to file a report for

insurance.”

Before I object, Brad appears at the back door, his shoes crunching the

broken glass beneath his feet. Brad has been inside taking inventory in

order to see if anything was stolen.

He scratches the stubble on his jaw. “They took the croutons.”

There’s a confused pause.

“Did you say ‘croutons’?” Darin asks.

“Yeah. They took the whole thing of croutons that were prepared last

night. Nothing else seems to be missing, though.”

That wasn’t at all what I was expecting him to say. If someone broke into

a restaurant and didn’t take appliances or anything else of value, they

probably broke in because they were hungry. I know that kind of

desperation firsthand. “I’m not reporting this.”

Darin turns to me. “Why not?”

“They might catch whoever did it.”

“That’s the point.”

I grab an empty box out of the dumpster and start picking up shards of

glass. “I broke into a restaurant once. Stole a turkey sandwich.”

Brad and Darin are both staring at me now. “Were you drunk?” Darin

asks.

“No. I was hungry. I don’t want anyone arrested for stealing croutons.”

“Okay, but maybe food was only the beginning. What if they come back

for appliances next time?” Darin says. “Is the security camera still broken?”

He’s been on me to get that repaired for months now. “I’ve been busy.”

Darin takes the box of glass from me and starts to pick up the remaining

pieces. “You should go work on that before they come back. Heck, they

might even try to hit up Corrigan’s tonight since Bib’s was such an easy

target.”

“Corrigan’s has working security. And I doubt whoever it was will

vandalize my new restaurant. It was a matter of convenience, not a targeted

break-in.”

“You hope,” Darin says.

I open my mouth to respond, but I’m interrupted by an incoming text

message. I don’t think I’ve ever reached for my phone faster. When I see

the text isn’t from Lily, I deflate a little.

I ran into her this morning while I was running errands. It was the first

time we’ve seen each other in a year and a half, but she was late for work

and I had just received the text from Darin informing me we had a break-in.

We parted somewhat awkwardly on the promise that she would text me

once she got to work.

It’s been an hour and a half since then, and I still haven’t heard from her.

An hour and a half is nothing, but I can’t ignore the nagging in my chest

that’s trying to convince me she’s having doubts about everything that was

said between us in that five-minute exchange on the sidewalk.

I’m definitely not having doubts about what I said. I might have gotten

caught up in the moment—in seeing how happy she looked and finding out

she’s no longer married. But I meant every word I said to her.

I’m ready for this. More than ready.

I pull up her contact info in my phone. I’ve wanted to text her so many

times over the last year and a half, but the last time I spoke to her, I left the

ball in her court. She had so much going on, I didn’t want to complicate her

life even more.

She’s single now, though, and she made it sound like she was finally

ready to give whatever could be between us a chance. However, she’s had

an hour and a half to think about our conversation, and an hour and a half is

plenty of time to form regrets. Every minute that passes without a text is

going to feel like a whole damn day.

She’s still listed as Lily Kincaid in my phone, so I edit her contact info

and change her last name back to Bloom.

I feel Darin hovering, looking over my shoulder at my phone screen. “Is

that our Lily?”

Brad perks up. “He’s texting Lily?”

“ ‘Our Lily’?” I ask, confused. “You guys met her once.”

“Is she still married?” Darin asks.

I shake my head.

“Good for her,” he says. “She was pregnant, right? What did she end up

having? A boy or a girl?”

I don’t want to discuss Lily because there’s nothing to discuss yet. I

don’t want to make it more than what it might be. “A girl, and that’s the last

question I’m answering.” I focus on Brad. “Theo coming in today?”

“It’s Thursday. He’ll be here.”

I head inside the restaurant. If I’m going to discuss Lily with anyone,

it’ll be Theo.

My hands are still shaking, even though it’s been almost two hours since I

ran into Atlas. I can’t tell if I’m shaking because I’m flustered or because

I’ve been too busy to eat since I walked in the door. I’ve barely had five

seconds of peace to process what happened this morning, much less eat the

breakfast I brought with me.

Did that actually just happen? Did I really ask Atlas a series of questions

so awkward, I’ll be mortified well into next year?

He didn’t seem awkward, though. He seemed very happy to see me, and

then when he hugged me, it felt like a part of me that had been dormant

suddenly sprang to life.

But this is the first moment I’ve had to even take a bathroom break, and

after looking at myself in the mirror just now, I kind of want to cry. I’m

splotchy, I have carrots smeared across my shirt, my nail polish has been

chipped since, like, January.

Not that Atlas expects or wants perfection. It’s just that I’ve imagined

running into him so many times, but not one of those fantasies starred me

bumping into him in the middle of a hectic morning, half an hour after

being the target of an eleven-month-old with a handful of baby food.

He looked so good. He smelled so good.

I probably smell like ****** milk.

I’m so rattled by what our chance encounter might mean, it took me

twice as long to organize everything for the delivery driver this morning. I

haven’t even checked our website for new orders today. I give myself one

last look in the mirror, but all I see is an exhausted, overworked single

mom.

I make my way out of the bathroom and back to the register. I pull an

order from the printer and begin making out the card. My mind has never

been more in need of a distraction, so I’m glad it’s been a busy morning.The order is for a bouquet of roses for someone named Greta from

someone named Jonathan. The message reads, I’m sorry about last night.

Forgive me?

I groan. Apology flowers are my least-favorite kind of bouquets to

assemble. I always end up obsessing over what they’re apologizing for. Did

he miss their date? Did he come home late? Did they fight?

Did he hit her?

Sometimes I want to write the number for the local domestic violence

shelter on the cards, but I have to remind myself that not every apology is

attached to something as awful as the things that were attached to the

apologies I used to receive. Maybe Jonathan is Greta’s friend and he’s

trying to cheer her up. Maybe he’s her husband and he took a prank a little

too far.

Whatever the reason for the flowers, I hope they mean something good. I

tuck the card into the envelope and stick it into the bouquet of roses. I set

them on the delivery shelf and am pulling up the next order when I receive

a text.

I lunge for my phone as if the text is about to self-destruct and I only

have three seconds to read it. I shrink when I look at the screen. It’s not

from Atlas, but rather from Ryle.

Can she eat French fries?

I shoot a quick response. Soft ones.

I drop my phone onto the counter with a thud. I don’t like for her to have

French fries too often, but Ryle only has her one to two days a week, so I

try to make sure she gets more nutritious foods when she’s with me.

It was nice not thinking about Ryle for a few minutes, but his text has

reminded me that he exists. And as long as he exists, I fear that any type of

relationship, or even a friendship between me and Atlas, can’t exist. How

will Ryle take it if I start seeing Atlas? How would he act if they ever had to

be around each other?

Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.

I stare at my phone, wondering what I should say to Atlas. I told him I

would text him after I opened the store, but customers were waiting before I

even unlocked the door. And now that Ryle has texted, I’ve gone and

remembered Ryle exists in this scenario, too, which makes me hesitant to

text Atlas at all.The front door opens, and my employee Lucy finally walks in. She

always seems so put-together, even when I can tell she’s in a bad mood.

“Good morning, Lucy.”

She flicks hair out of her eyes and sets her purse on the counter with a

sigh. “Is it?”

Lucy isn’t at her friendliest in the morning. It’s why my other employee

Serena or I usually work the register until at least eleven, while Lucy puts

arrangements together in the back. She’s much better with customers after a

cup or five of coffee.

“I just found out our place cards never arrived because they were

discontinued, and it’s too late to order more. The wedding is in less than a

month.”

So much has gone wrong leading up to this wedding, I have half a mind

to tell her not to go through with it. But I’m not superstitious. Hopefully she

isn’t, either.

“Homemade place cards are in style,” I offer.

Lucy rolls her eyes. “I hate crafting,” she mutters. “I don’t even want a

wedding now. It feels like we’ve been planning it for longer than we even

dated.” That’s accurate. “Maybe we’ll just call it off and go to Vegas. You

eloped, right? Do you regret it?”

I don’t know which part of all that to address first. “How can you hate

crafting? You work at a flower shop. And I’m divorced; of course I regret

eloping.” I hand her a small stack of orders I haven’t gotten to yet. “But it

was fun,” I admit.

Lucy goes to the back and starts on the rest of the orders, and I go back

to thinking about Atlas. And Ryle. And Armageddon, which is what the two

of them in my brain at the same time feels like.

I have no idea how this is expected to work. When Atlas and I ran into

each other, it was as if everything else faded away, including Ryle. But now

Ryle is beginning to seep back into my thoughts. Not in the way thoughts of

Ryle used to occupy my mind, but more in a way that feels like a roadblock.

My love life has finally been on a straight path with no bumps or curves,

basically because it’s been nonexistent for well over a year and a half, but

now it feels like there’s nothing but rough terrain and obstacles and cliffs

ahead.

Is it worth it? Of course Atlas is worth it.

But are we worth it? Is us potentially becoming a thing worth the stress it

would inevitably bring to all the other areas of my life?

I haven’t felt this conflicted in so long. Part of me wants to call Allysa

and tell her about seeing Atlas, but I can’t. She knows how Ryle still feels

about me. She knows how he’d feel if I brought Atlas into the picture.

I can’t talk to my mother because she’s my mother. As close as we’ve

become lately, I’d still never freely discuss my dating life with her.

There’s really only one woman I feel comfortable talking to about Atlas.

“Lucy?”

She appears from the back, pulling an earbud out of her ear. “Did you

need me?”

“Can you cover me for a while? I need to go run an errand. I’ll be back

in an hour.”

She makes her way behind the counter, and I grab my purse. I don’t get a

lot of alone time now that I have Emerson, so I occasionally steal an hour

here and there during the workweek when I have someone to back up my

absence at the shop.

Sometimes I like to sit in my thoughts, and it’s impossible to do that in

the presence of a child because even when she’s asleep I’m in mom mode.

And with the constant flow of traffic at work, it’s rare that I can find a

stretch of peace without being interrupted.

I’ve found that being alone in my car with my music on, and

occasionally a slice of dessert from the Cheesecake Factory, is sometimes

all it takes to sort through the knots in my brain.

Once I’m parked with a clear view of Boston Harbor, I lean my seat back

and grab the notepad and pen I brought with me. I don’t know if this will

help as much as dessert sometimes does, but I need to release my thoughts

in the same way I’ve done in the past. This method has helped before when

I need things to fall neatly into place. Although this time, I’m just hoping it

helps things not to fall completely apart.

Dear Ellen,

Guess who’s back?

Me.

And Atlas.

Both of us.

I ran into him on my way to meet Ryle with Emmy this morning. It

was so good to see him. But as reaffirming as it was to see him and to

know where we both stand at this point in our lives, it ended a bit

awkwardly. He was having a minor emergency with his restaurant

and was in a hurry; I was late opening the store. We parted on the

promise that I would text him.

I want to text him. I do. Especially because seeing him reminded

me of how much I miss the feeling I get when I’m around him.

I didn’t realize how lonely I’d been feeling until those few minutes

with him this morning. But since Ryle and I divorced… oh, wait.

Wow. I haven’t told you about the divorce.

It’s been way too long since I’ve written to you. Let me back up.

I decided my separation from Ryle should be permanent after

giving birth to Emmy. I asked him for a divorce right after she was

born. I wasn’t attempting to be cruel in my timing, I just didn’t know

which choice I was going to make until I held her in my arms and

knew with every fiber of my being that I would do whatever it took to

break the cycle of abuse.

Yes, asking for a divorce hurt. Yes, I was heartbroken. But no, I

don’t regret it. My choice helped me realize that sometimes the

hardest decisions a person can make will most likely lead to the best

outcomes.

I can’t lie and say I don’t miss him, because I do. I miss what we

sometimes were. I miss the family we could have been for Emerson.

But I know I made the right decision, even though I sometimes get

overwhelmed by the weight of it. It’s difficult because I still have to

interact with Ryle. He still possesses all the good qualities I fell in

love with, and now that I’m no longer in a relationship with him, it’s

rare I see the negative side that ultimately ended our marriage. I

think that has to do with the fact that he’s on his best behavior. He

had to be agreeable and not put up too much of a fight because he

knew I could have reported him for all the incidents of domestic

violence I experienced at his hands. He could have lost a lot more

than his wife, so when it came to the custody arrangement, things

were more amiable than I expected them to be.

That may have been more because I put up less of a fight than he

did. My lawyer was very straightforward when I said I wanted sole custody. Unless I was willing to drag the dirtiest parts of our rock

bottom into a courtroom, there wasn’t much I could do to prevent Ryle

from getting visits with Emerson. And even if I were to bring up the

domestic violence, my lawyer said it’s very rare that a willing,

successful father without a record, who provides financial support,

would have any sort of rights removed.

I was looking at two options. I could choose to press charges and

drag this through the courts, only to be met with a very possible joint

custody arrangement. Or I could attempt to work an agreement out

with Ryle that would satisfy us both, while preserving our coparenting

relationship.

I guess you could say we came to a compromise, even though there

isn’t an agreement in the world that would make me feel comfortable

with sending my daughter off with someone I know possesses a

temper. But all I can do is choose the lesser of two evils when it comes

to custody and hope that Emmy never sees that side of him.

I want Emmy to bond with her father. I’ve never wanted to keep

her from him. I just want to ensure she’s safe, which is why I begged

Ryle to agree to day visits for the first couple of years. I never told

him outright it’s because I don’t know that I fully trust him with her. I

think I might have blamed it on my breastfeeding situation and the

fact that he’s on call all the time, but deep down I’m sure he knows

why I’ve never wanted her to stay with him overnight.

The past abuse is something we don’t talk about. We talk about

Emmy, we talk about work, we plaster on smiles when we’re in the

presence of our daughter. Sometimes it feels forced and fake, at least

on my end, but it’s better than what this could have been had I taken

him to court and lost. I’ll fake a smile until she’s eighteen if it means I

don’t have to share custody and potentially expose my daughter to the

worst parts of her father on a more regular basis.

It’s been working out okay so far, if you don’t count the occasional

gaslighting and unwanted flirtation from him. As clear as I’ve made

my feelings during this divorce, he still has hope for us. He says

things sometimes that indicate he hasn’t fully let go of the idea of us. I

fear that a huge part of Ryle’s cooperation rests on the notion that

he’ll eventually win me back if he’s good enough for long enough. He

has it in his head that I’ll soften over time.

But life isn’t going to happen his way, Ellen. I’m ultimately going

to move on, and if I’m being honest, I hope I end up moving on in

Atlas’s direction. It’s too soon to know if that’s a possibility, but I

know for a fact I’ll never move back in Ryle’s direction, no matter

how much time passes.

It’s been almost a year since I asked Ryle for the divorce, but it’s

been almost nineteen months since the fight that ultimately caused

our separation. Which means I’ve been single for over a year and a

half.

A year and a half of separation between potential relationships

seems like plenty of time, and maybe it would be if it were anyone

other than Atlas. But how can I possibly make this work? What if I

text Atlas and he invites me to lunch? And then lunch goes wonderful,

which I’m sure it would, and lunch leads to dinner? And dinner leads

to us falling right back into step with where we left off when we were

younger? And then we’re both happy and we fall back in love and he

becomes a permanent part of my life?

I know it sounds like I’m getting ahead of myself, but it’s Atlas

we’re talking about here. Unless he had a personality transplant, I

think you and I both know how easy Atlas is for me to love, Ellen.

That’s why I’m so hesitant, because I’m scared it will work out.

And if it works out, how will Ryle feel about my new relationship?

Emerson is almost a year old, and we’ve gone this whole year without

too much drama, but I know that’s because we’ve found a good flow

that nothing has interrupted. So why does it feel like any mention of

Atlas will cause a tsunami?

Not that Ryle deserves the concern I’m currently feeling over this

situation, but he has the potential to make my dating life a living hell.

Why does Ryle still occupy an entire wall in my many layers of

thoughts? That’s what it feels like—as if these wonderful things

happen, but as they start to sink in, they eventually reach a part of me

that is still making decisions based on Ryle and his potential

reactions.

His reactions are what I fear the most. I want to hope that he

wouldn’t be jealous, but he will be. If I start dating Atlas, he’ll make it

difficult for everyone. Even though I know divorce was the right

choice, there are still consequences to that choice. And one of those

Consequences is that Ryle will always look at Atlas like he’s the thing

that broke up our marriage.

Ryle is the father of my daughter. No matter what man comes and

goes in my life from this point forward, Ryle is the one constant that

I’ll always have to appease if I want the most peaceful experience for

my daughter. And if Atlas Corrigan is back in my life—Ryle will never

be appeased.

I wish you could tell me what decision to make. Do I sacrifice what

I know will make me happy for the sake of avoiding the inevitable

disruption Atlas’s presence would cause?

Or will I always have an Atlas-shaped hole in my heart unless I

allow him to fill it?

He’s expecting me to text him, but I think I need more time to

process this. I don’t even know what to say to him. I don’t know what

to do.

I’ll let you know if I figure it out.

Lily