Chapter 21: When Ethan Knocked

Ethan came to Denver again two months later. This time, he wasn't there for business. He told me that in the first line of his email. Mara, I'm thinking about coming to Denver next weekend. Not for work. I'd like to see you, but only if you want to see me. If the answer is no, I won't come. Ethan I stared at the message for an embarrassingly long time. The difference between this visit and the last one was obvious. Last time, circumstances had brought him to my city. This time, he would be coming for me. I closed the email. Reopened it. Closed it again. At lunch, June took one look at my face and said, "Man problem." "Why does everyone know?" "Because work problems make you angry. Family problems make you tired. Man problems make you pretend nothing is happening." I glared at her. She smiled. We were sitting in the textile studio where she worked, surrounded by fabric samples and half-restored pieces. "Ethan wants to visit." "The ex-fiancé." "Yes." "The one who spent your money on another woman's project." "Yes." "The one who let your family reduce your wedding into a charity supply closet." "That's dramatic." "Is it inaccurate?" "No." She threaded a needle. "And you still love him." I looked away. June did not ask it as a question. "I don't know what kind of love it is." "Does the label matter?" "Maybe." "Why?" "Because I don't want to confuse history with a future." She nodded approvingly. "Good sentence." "I'm serious." "So am I." She put down the needle. "Do you want to see him?" "Yes." There. The answer. Simple and inconvenient. "Then see him." "What if that gives him hope?" "Tell him the truth." "What if it gives me hope?" June smiled. "Tell yourself the truth." I hated wise people. That evening, I replied. You can come. Dinner Saturday. No assumptions beyond that. His response arrived ten minutes later. Understood. Thank you. Saturday came too quickly. I spent an unreasonable amount of time deciding what to wear, became annoyed at myself for caring, changed twice, and finally chose something I would have worn to dinner with anyone else. Ethan texted when he arrived at the restaurant. I deliberately arrived five minutes later. Not as a game. I just needed one final walk around the block. When I entered, he stood. For a moment, neither of us spoke. He looked familiar. Different. His hair was slightly longer. He had lost the constant sharpness he used to carry around work. "Hi," he said. "Hi." We sat. The first ten minutes were almost painfully polite. Work. Weather. Denver. Boston. Then I laughed. "This is ridiculous." Relief crossed his face. "Thank God." "We dated for ten years and now we're talking about humidity." "I didn't know what topics were allowed." "Anything except my family trying to reunite us." "Agreed." The conversation loosened. He told me he had left his old company. That surprised me. "Why?" "I realized I hated the life I had built." I raised an eyebrow. "That sounds familiar." "I know." He smiled faintly. "I kept thinking being successful meant becoming indispensable to everyone." My expression changed. He noticed. "I know how hypocritical that sounds." "A little." "I liked solving problems." "Especially Sloane's." "Especially anyone's except my own." That was new. He told me he had started working with a smaller investment firm. Less prestige. Less money. More control over his time. "I started therapy too." I nearly dropped my glass. "What?" He laughed. "That was basically my therapist's reaction when I described myself." "You hated therapy." "I hated the idea that someone might tell me I was wrong." "How's that going?" "Apparently I'm wrong a lot." I laughed. For a few seconds, we were us again. The old us. Before the gala. Before the thirty-thousand-dollar transfer. Before Denver. That was the dangerous part. Good memories had not disappeared. Neither had chemistry. After dinner, we walked. The evening was cold. At a crosswalk, Ethan instinctively reached toward my back when a cyclist passed too close. His hand stopped before touching me. That tiny hesitation affected me more than if he had actually touched me. "You can touch my arm," I said. He looked at me. "Are you sure?" "Yes." His fingers closed gently around my elbow as we crossed. My heart reacted like an idiot. Ten years. Bodies remembered. At the next corner, he let go. "Why did you come?" I asked. He stopped. "Because I miss you." The honesty was immediate. "And?" "And because I wanted to know whether there was any version of knowing you now that you'd allow." I folded my arms against the cold. "What does that mean?" "It means I'm not asking you to resume our engagement." "Good." "I'm not asking you to move back." "Good." "I'm not even asking you to date me." I looked at him. "Then what are you asking?" "A chance to know who you became after you stopped organizing your life around us." My chest tightened. "Ethan—" "I know I may not get more than tonight." His voice remained calm. "But I spent years thinking I knew you because we'd been together so long." He looked away briefly. "I knew what tea you drank. I knew which side of the bed you slept on. I knew how you organized legal pads. But I didn't know what you wanted when no one else was asking for something first." Neither did I. Not then. He continued. "I'd like to know that person." I swallowed. "And what happens if you fall in love with her?" A sad smile touched his mouth. "Too late." My eyes burned. "Don't." "I'm not trying to pressure you." "Then don't say things like that." "Okay." He accepted the boundary immediately. That somehow made it worse. We reached my building. Ethan stopped outside. He did not ask to come up. "Thank you for dinner." "Thank you for coming." He nodded. I should have gone inside. Instead, I asked, "Where are you staying?" "Hotel near Union Station." "How long?" "Until tomorrow afternoon." I hesitated. "Do you want breakfast?" His expression changed, but he controlled it quickly. "Yes." "Nine?" "Nine." "There's a place two blocks from here." "I'll meet you there." I nodded. Then I went inside. The elevator doors closed. I leaned against the wall. What was I doing? The answer came slowly. Choosing. That was all. One dinner did not equal reconciliation. Breakfast did not equal engagement. Affection did not equal obligation. I was allowed to take one step without promising the entire road. The next morning, Ethan arrived before me. He had already ordered tea. My tea. He froze when he realized what he had done. "Sorry. I should've asked." I looked at the cup. The exact blend I still drank. "It's fine." "You might drink something different now." "I don't." He smiled. "Some things survive." "Apparently." Breakfast was easier. He asked about Vancouver. I told him about mailing myself a postcard. He laughed until he nearly spilled coffee. "That's painfully sentimental." "I know." "Your grandmother would approve." I looked at him. He remembered Grandma well. Of course he did. He had been at her funeral. He had held my hand the entire day. Good memories. Again. After breakfast, we stood outside. "I should go," he said. "Okay." He hesitated. "Can I hug you?" Everyone was learning to ask. I smiled. "Yes." His arms closed around me. For one second, I rested my face against his chest. The familiar scent. The familiar warmth. The person I had once believed would be my husband. When we separated, his eyes were wet. Mine probably were too. "No assumptions," I reminded him. "No assumptions." "Don't start flying here every weekend." "I won't." "Don't send flowers to my office." He almost smiled. "Wasn't planning to." "Good." He looked at me. "Can I call you sometime?" I thought about it. "Yes." His expression softened. "Okay." I watched him walk away. My heart hurt. But it was not the old pain. The old pain had been the feeling of being abandoned while standing beside someone. This was uncertainty. Possibility. Risk. All relationships contained those things. The difference was that I was no longer trapped inside an outcome someone else had chosen. Maybe Ethan and I would find our way back to each other. Maybe we wouldn't. Maybe knowing each other again would reveal that love had survived but compatibility had not. Maybe the opposite. I didn't know. And for once, I didn't need to know. I went upstairs. Grandma's compass lay on my dresser. I picked it up and smiled. A compass could tell you direction. It could not promise where the road would end. That part, apparently, was mine to discover.