Page 64 of The Husband I Left

My stomach lets out an embarrassingly loud growl, interrupting my thoughts. I laugh, pressing a hand to my abdomen. “It’s moments like this when I miss Mrs. Stewart, too,” I tell the empty room. The housekeeper always made sure there was food ready when I got home from my classes.

I push myself off the couch and head to the kitchen, which is really just a corner of my living room with some cabinets and appliances bolted to the wall. The contents of my fridge prove to be a disappointment, however: creamer, half a tub of hummus, leftover takeout from the other night, some sad looking celery, and exactly two eggs.

“Well, that’s not gonna cut it,” I mutter, shutting the door.

I could order delivery, but my bank account is still recovering from the unexpected car repair last week. Which means a quick run down to the Stop & Shop will be needed.

Decision made, I grab my keys and my purse, pulling on a pair of sneakers by the door.

Across the hall, two men are manhandling a mattress through an open doorway. The apartment‘s been empty for a couple of weeks now, and I wonder briefly who my new neighbor will be. Part of me hopes it will be someone young enough that the building’s matchmakers will have a new target to focus on. The rest of me hopes that they’re quiet, whoever they are. It’s bad enough that I can hear Mr. Hill’s TV shows, along with his shouted commentary, through the thin walls.

Outside, the evening air has a bite to it, the temperature dropping as darkness falls. I pull my coat tighter around me and head down the street toward the supermarket. This neighborhood is nothing like the one where Oliver’s penthouse is located. There are no doormen here, no valet parking, no concierge to handle your packages. Just regular people going about their lives, carrying their own groceries, scraping ice off their own windshields in the winter. It’s messy and sometimes loud and occasionally frustrating, and I vastly prefer it to life in Oliver’s gilded cage.

Finally reaching the supermarket, I grab a cart and start my usual circuit. The store isn’t too crowded; mostly people grabbing a few items for dinner. I navigate around a woman with three small children, all of them wailing about treats, and feel a pang of sympathy for her.

I’ve just entered the produce section when I hear a familiar voice. No, two familiar voices. My head snaps up, eyes scanning the area until they land on the most bizarre sight imaginable: Oliver and Leo standing in front of the tomatoes, bickering over what appears to be a shopping list.

I blink, sure I’m hallucinating. I must be hungrier than I thought. Or maybe I’ve just been working too hard lately. But no; that’s definitely Oliver. He’s wearing jeans. I didn’t think Oliver even owned any jeans. And beside him is Leo, looking completely out of place in his obviously expensive coat and shoes, his hair perfectly styled despite the late hour. Leo has his phone in hand and is gesturing emphatically at something on the screen.

They haven’t noticed me yet. I could probably still slink away without attracting their attention. But I’m frozen in place, clutching the lettuce I just picked up like it’s a lifeline. And then Leo looks up, his eyes meeting mine, and his face splits into a grin.

“Genny!” he calls, waving enthusiastically. “Fancy meeting you here!”

Oliver’s head snaps around, his eyes widening as they land on me. “Genny,” he says, and I try not to think about how he’s looking at me like I’m a feast and he’s a starving man.

My feet move of their own accord, carrying me toward them, my cart rattling over a crack in the linoleum. I slow down as I approach, noticing the contents of their cart: a package of expensive steak, tortilla chips, a single avocado, a family sized bag of candy, a loaf of bread, a box of macaroni and cheese.

“What are you doing here?” I blurt out, and part of me immediately regrets the question. I should just walk away. I shouldn’t be curious about my ex-husband’s life. But the other part of me wants to know, just what the hell is Oliver doing here?

Leo answers before Oliver can, his eyes dancing with mischief. “We’re shopping for dinner. Oliver’s learning to cook. Or at least, he’s trying to. The jury’s still out on whether anything edible will be produced.”

I glance at Oliver, who’s gone from looking like he wants to devour me to staring intently at the floor. “You’re cooking?” I ask, not bothering to hide my surprise. “You?”

He finally looks up, a flush spreading across his cheeks. “I’m capable of learning new skills,” he says, his voice stiff.

“Maybe you can help us, Genny,” Leo interrupts. “The recipe calls for tomatoes. Oliver can’t decide what kind to get.”

“Generally any kind will..” I start weakly, and then curiosity gets the better of me. “Why are you cooking? Where’s Mrs. Stewart? Why…” I gesture at their cart, the question hanging in the air.

Leo opens his mouth to answer, but Oliver cuts him off. “I don‘t have Mrs. Stewart anymore,” he says, his voice quiet. “Or the penthouse. Or…any of it.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

“Oliver has decided to join the common folk,” Leo explains cheerfully. “He’s left the family business and struck out on his own. A true riches-to-rags story.”

I blink at him, then at Oliver, who’s gone back to studying the floor with intense concentration. “You quit? But…” I shake my head, trying to make sense of this. “Your father must have been furious.”

Oliver doesn’t answer, but Leo snorts. “That’s putting it lightly. He cut Oliver off. He’s leaving everything to his nephew. Told Oliver he was on his own.”

My head is spinning. This is Oliver Sinclair we’re talking about; the man who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, who’d never done his own laundry or cooked his own meals or worried about money in his entire privileged life.

And now he’s here at my neighborhood Stop & Shop worrying about what kind of tomatoes to get.

“But why would you do that?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

Oliver looks up then, his blue eyes meeting mine directly for the first time. The intensity of his gaze makes my stomach flip. He doesn’t answer, but something in his expression makes me think that maybe, just maybe, the answer has something to do with me.

The thought is so unsettling that I take a step back, my hip bumping into my cart. “I should go,” I say quickly. “I still have a lot of shopping to do, and I’m sure you two have a lot of…” I wave vaguely at their cart. “Whatever this is.”