Love In Slow Motion (Love Beyond Measure #2) - E.M. Lindsey Page 0,13

and hope, because he’d done something he had always doubted he would be able to accomplish.

“I guess he’s moving his practice?” Corinne said, and Fredric let out a sigh of relief.

“So, he’s not giving up his profession.”

“Not that I’m aware of.” She stepped away from Fredric, and after a beat, he heard the sound of the waterspout on the fridge filling her glass. She took a drink, and then set it down on the counter with a gentle click of glass on granite. “He posted about it on Facebook. He and I haven’t talked much since Christmas.”

Christmas—the first one without Jacqueline, the start to his new life as they gathered at Julian’s house and gave him the courage to go after the one person that really mattered in his life. He’d ridden back home with Ilan, and he couldn’t deny there had been a sort of sadness in Ilan’s voice, but Fredric was still reeling from his son moving, and he hadn’t asked.

He wondered if he’d done the man a disservice by not keeping in touch, because Ilan was like family—and Fredric was trying his damndest to stop letting these people down. “I should call him,” he said, and he heard Corinne scoff.

“Not like he ever picks up the damn phone anyway. And I’m sure he’s fine. I mean, he seemed kind of excited about it. He’s gonna start practicing somewhere else, and his house sold after like three days on the market.” Corrine paused. “Asshole.”

Fredric laughed, then drained the water from his glass and felt behind him until his fingers touched the stool. It felt good to sit—he’d been on his feet setting up his place and spending time making it feel like his rather than an empty shell of what he’d left behind.

Every second of his day in his old home had catered to his ex-wife. The single rule that nothing be moved had been followed, but he had no fingerprint in the place he’d lived for nearly all of his adult life. And he felt that in the way his throat went dry and his eyes went hot when he was setting up his bookshelves in the living room.

He kept listening for the click of high heels on the floor, the soft breath before the tirade. He braced himself to be berated and shamed for the choices he made—for taking up space. And those moments never came, because they were over, and he wasn’t quite sure how to accept that.

The first night in his own bed, he was lonely. And it was absurd, because he and Jacqueline hadn’t shared a bed in more years than he wanted to count, but there was something about knowing she was a few doors down from him that made the silence bearable. And then he hated himself for missing her, because she’d been the mother of his children but also a source of misery that went so deep, he had no words to describe it.

Abuse, Julian had called it, and Fredric’s first response was to deny it, but he was too old and too educated to make himself say the lie aloud. He knew what Jacqueline had done. To him. To their children. Reality was bitter—the sort of bitter that made his mouth dry and teeth ache.

“How are you sleeping?” Corinne asked, and Fredric wondered if the insomnia was obvious.

He pressed his fingers just under his eyes, but he couldn’t really tell if he was more puffy than usual. There were new wrinkles, but he was getting used to that more and more. “I have my pills,” he told her. And he did, but he wanted to develop his new normal before falling back into old habits. “It’s going to be an adjustment, and that’s okay. I really want you to stop worrying so much.”

She sighed, sounding put-upon, and he loved her for it. “Are you at least going to try to make friends in this random early retirement life?”

Fredric laughed, and he heard the sound of the dog door a few seconds before Bastian leaned into him. He reached down and gave the dog’s cheeks a scritch. “I’ve already started. My neighbor and her partner invited me over for dinner.”

“Why?” Corinne asked, her voice sharp.

Fredric couldn’t help but wonder if any of them would grow out of the fear that everyone wanted something for a reason. That everything was a manipulation, a method of control. “I think she’s trying to be nice,” he offered. “She’s younger, really sweet. Bas loved