“What do you want?”
“If you ever want anything with me again, I want something new.”
“No assumptions?”
“None.”
“No disappearing?”
“Never.”
“No secret bank accounts?”
“Absolutely not.”
“No fake funerals?”
He smiled.
“I feel that should be obvious.”
“It clearly wasn’t the first time.”
He laughed.
Then he reached across the table.
He did not take my hand.
He simply placed his palm upward.
An invitation.
I looked at it for a long time.
Then I put my hand in his.
Not because thirty-four years obligated me.
Not because we had children.
Not because I was afraid of being alone.
Because for the first time in decades, I knew I had a genuine choice.
And I chose one evening.
One cup of coffee.
One conversation.
Nothing more.
That was enough.
Then my phone buzzed.
A news notification.
Charles Mercer Found Unresponsive While Awaiting Federal Trial.
My stomach tightened.
Michael read over my shoulder.
