The Anniversary Toast Chapter 13
A year after I found that phone in the gym bag, I stood on the balcony of my apartment – the apartment I’d chosen, furnished, and made entirely my own – and took stock.
I had a career I was proud of. A novel in progress. A best friend who would go to war for me. A man who loved me quietly and consistently, who never made me guess, who never made me feel like I wasn’t enough.
And I had myself. Whole. Not because the betrayal hadn’t scarred me – it had, and those scars would always be there, woven into the fabric of who I was. But scars are just proof that you survived something that tried to destroy you. And I had survived.
Owen came up behind me, resting his chin on my shoulder – a gesture that might have triggered a memory of Grant, but didn’t. Because it was different. Everything about this was different.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“About how the worst day of my life led me here.”
He pressed a kiss to my temple. “I’m grateful for that day. Is that terrible to say?”
“It’s honest. I’d rather have honest and terrible than pretty and fake.”
He laughed softly. “That should be on a greeting card.”
Below us, the city hummed with life – strangers walking to dinner, couples arguing on corners, families laughing through open windows. The world, messy and imperfect and relentlessly moving forward.
Nora called that evening, as she did every Sunday.
“How’s the novel coming?”
“Almost finished.”
“Is it autobiographical?”
“Parts of it.”
“Does the heroine end up happy?”
I smiled, glancing at Owen, who was in the kitchen attempting to cook pasta and losing badly.
“She does,” I said. “Eventually.”
“Good,” Nora said firmly. “She deserves it.”
I thought about Audrey. We hadn’t spoken since that sixty-second phone call. I didn’t know if we ever would again. Some fractures heal; others simply stop bleeding. I’d accepted that our relationship might remain in that second category – not a wound, but a scar.
And I thought about Grant, briefly, the way you think about a storm that’s already passed. He existed somewhere in the world, living with his choices. I wished him no harm. But I wished him nothing at all. The opposite of love isn’t hate – it’s indifference. And I had finally, fully, arrived at indifference.
“Elise?” Owen called from the kitchen. “I think I burned the garlic.”
“You definitely burned the garlic.”
“Should I start over?”
I walked into the kitchen, took the pan from his hands, and kissed him.
“Always,” I said. “Starting over is what we do best.”