heart squeeze and brought out my protective feelings. Now, I observe him impartially. As one would a stranger.
I take in his bushy eyebrows, long hair that falls to his shoulders, and I can’t believe that I once found Clay hot. He’s wearing a leather jacket even though the weather is too warm. He peruses me too, his eyes lingering on my chest. He always loved my big boobs. I fight the temptation to cross my hands across my chest to protect myself from his stare. He frowns as he takes in my flared shorts. Clay hated when I wore shorts or spaghetti tops. He insisted I cover up even when I wasn’t going to leave the house.
I can’t tell you how liberating it has been to stay in my shorts all day without someone breathing down my neck. I flash him a smile of triumph. A genuine one. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
“I just came by to check on you,” he says, and I stare at him in amazement.
“We’re divorced, Clay. You don’t get to check on me,” I say, imitating his voice.
He adopts a hurt look. I don’t care. I just want him gone.
“Where’s Terry?” I ask him.
“I’m done with Terry.” A crease forms across his forehead. “I told you that in one of the messages I sent you. You didn’t read them, did you?” He narrows his eyes.
“You’re right; I didn’t.” My phone has been flashing with messages from him all week. I delete them without even taking a peek.
“I can’t fucking stand it there,” Clay says. “I want to come back home, Mila. Those children don’t give you a moment of peace with all their screaming and shouting.”
His words are like a sword to my chest, and for a second, I can’t speak. “That’s why you left, remember? You wanted children.”
He had thrown it at me as he’d packed his clothes. He wanted a real woman. One who could give him a family. Never mind that we had never discussed children.
I had known there was something the matter with me. In all the years that Clay and I had been married, I had never used contraceptives. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had hoped for a surprise pregnancy, but when that didn’t happen, I let it go. We were happy and didn’t need children to complete us. That’s what I’d foolishly thought. Then Clay dropped the bomb. He was leaving.
“How’s your painting going?” he asks with a smile that does not reach his eyes.
His concern is fake. Clay had never shown any interest in my painting. He called it a hobby, and when the money started rolling in, he shrugged and dismissed it as a nice hobby. He worked as a marketer for a pharmaceutical company. A serious job compared to my little hobby.
It hits me now how many differences we’d had, and I briefly wondered how we managed to stay married for three years. We were such different people.
“Why do you care?” I say and suddenly feel drained. “Please just go.”
I feel no anger or resentment toward him. He is just someone I used to know. Someone I once liked. Now I feel nothing for him.
“We belong together, Mila,” he says.
I meet his stare. His dark intense eyes glower back unblinking. Something dances in them. Something wild. Mad. A stab of fear courses through my veins. I shake myself out of it. Clay is selfish, not dangerous. He would never harm me. Still, I take a step back into the house.
“Please leave,” I say, hating the fear that creeps into my voice. I need to be alone right now. I try to close the door. Something jams it. Clay’s foot.
“I made a mistake, Mila,” he says, his voice taking on a desperate tone. “People make mistakes, and they get forgiven, why can’t you forgive me?”
My hands tremble as I try to push the door.
“Will you think about it?” he says, leaning against the door.
I nod. Anything to get him to go away. He does, and I bang the door in his face. I peer through the keyhole and jump back when I come up against his face close to the door. He stands there, looking at the door, and I’m frightened that he’ll try to break in.
I tell myself I’m being silly.
I run upstairs to my studio, sit down, and wait for my breath to return to normal. When it does, I pick up my phone, and with shaking