For Lucy

I haven’t been inside the house since the day I hauled away my last box of personal belongings, driving away from that damn perfectly painted white fence.

“What if your mom’s not okay with me waiting inside?” God … do I sound as insecure as I feel?

“It’s fine. She’s probably busy on her computer and won’t pay much attention to you anyway.” Lucy opens the front door.

I’d forgotten how our house always smelled of lavender—Tatum’s favorite scent for everything from candles to cleaning supplies and fabric softener.

“Hey, Mom. I’m going to jump in the shower before Ashton gets here.”

I attempt to hide my heart sprinting out of control when Tatum glances up from her computer at the kitchen table—that unruly hair (now a few shades lighter) in a messy bun, royal blue framed reading glasses sitting low on her nose. She uses the back of her hand to push them into place as her lips pull into a tight line that she tries to pass as a smile.

It seems like a lifetime ago—at the same time I remember it like yesterday. Her smile engulfed her face without any sort of control just from my walking into the room. There’s nothing more magical than your mere existence bringing complete joy to another human. And there’s nothing more soul crushing than that same existence inflicting an eternity of pain.

I’d kissed those lips so many times it felt like they were made for that very reason. Did they miss me even a little? Were there tiny pauses in Tatum’s life that allowed her to forget how we got here? All the moments that led to purchasing this fixer-upper and filling it with a life?

When the bathroom door upstairs slams shut, I clear my throat, feeling as nervous as I did the night I told her I wasn’t her blind date, Cody. “Hi. Uh … Lucy said I could meet her date. I offered to stay in my truck. I have work to do as well, but she was pretty adamant about me coming inside.”

Tatum studies me for several seconds with an unreadable expression. “I’m selling the house,” she says as if the words won’t completely fit through her throat.

What I hear is “In case the divorce wasn’t enough, I’m separating from you even further.” I nod slowly. When we divorced, I didn’t ask for anything except Lucy, but there was a condition for selling the house: either we would split the profit from it or I would buy her out. We moved into this house just months before having Lucy. We gutted it and renovated it one room at a time as we could afford it. This house bore witness to every important moment in our life together.

Birthday parties.

Over a decade of Christmases.

Pictures on the front porch swing the first day of school.

We took this house and made it our home.

“Can I ask why?”

Her flinch is slight, but I catch it. “Do you really have to?”

“Where are you going?”

“There’s a foreclosure on Edmond Street.”

“Edmond Street?” My brow furrows. “You’re selling our house to move two blocks north? Does Lucy know?”

Tatum shifts her gaze out the window to the backyard. “Of course she knows.”

“And she’s okay with it?”

Her attention returns to me, and she nods several times while blowing out a long breath like she’s been dying to get this off her chest. “I actually have an interested buyer, and—”

“No.” My voice snaps with irritation. “I’ll buy you out.”

She scoffs. “You can’t be serious. Why would you want it?”

Because I refuse to erase all the good because something bad happened here. Maybe she can no longer see the memories that brought us joy, but I can. This house has a pulse. It’s seen everything. It will always hold the memories that I need to remember.

“Whatever, Emmett.” She glances at her phone and types something into it, her lips twisted to the side for several seconds as she nibbles the inside of her cheek. I know all her looks. And I know what they mean. I can see her without opening my eyes. Maybe I never got that college degree, but I have a PhD in my wife—ex-wife.

“Go.”

She glances up.

“I know that look. You have plans. But now I’m here. Clearly you’ve met this Ashton kid before. No need to stick around. I know how to lock the door behind me.”

“It’s nothing. And you don’t know my looks.” She bristles, pushing her chair back and taking her water glass to the sink.

I’m not sure if she truly hates me or if she hates the fact that she should hate me and it’s not easy to do. It’s not a cliché—there is a thin line between love and hate. Investment breeds emotions, and we were nothing if not fully invested in each other.

“My apologies. I don’t know your looks,” I say, but … I absolutely know her looks. “Just a guess.” I plop down into the paisley armchair next to the velvet eggplant sofa. Not only is lavender her favorite scent, purple is her favorite color. And our house is professionally decorated in shades of purple and cream with tiny splashes of gold or something I think she calls lemon tart. The built-in bookshelves are filled with books and trinkets, candlesticks and air plants.