Page 65 of The Husband I Left

“We’re making steak fajitas and Mrs Stewart’s salsa,” Leo supplies helpfully. “Or we will be, if Oliver would just choose some damn tomatoes.”

“I have to go,” I repeat, already backing away. “It was… good to see you both.”

I don’t wait for a response. I just turn my cart around and head for the nearest aisle, my heart pounding in my ears. I pick up items at random, barely registering what I’m putting in my cart. Oliver quit. Oliver is cooking. Oliver is shopping at a regular grocery store and wearing jeans he looked far too good in. Oliver looked at me like…

No, I’m not going there. Not now, not ever.

By the time I make it to the checkout line, my cart contains half of what I came for and a bunch of things I definitely don’t need. The cashier gives me a strange look as she rings up my haul, but I’m too distracted to care. I pay, grab my bags, and head for home on autopilot, my mind still stuck on the image of Oliver in the produce section.

The walk back to my apartment feels twice as long as usual; my arms aching from the weight of the bags. My building comes into view, and I notice the movers are still here, carrying in more furniture. I duck my head, hoping to slip past without having to make small talk, and head for the stairs.

I’m halfway up when I hear a familiar voice. Two familiar voices. Again. “Careful with that!” and “I told you we should have made two trips.”

I freeze, my foot on the next step, my stomach dropping to my toes. It can’t be. There’s no way.

But when I turn, there they are. Oliver and Leo half a flight of stairs behind me, arms laden with plastic grocery bags.

I turn and head up the stairs as fast as I can, hoping they won’t look up. I’m almost at the door of my apartment when I hear Leo’s voice behind me. “Genny! Looks like you and Oliver are neighbors now!”

I slowly turn to face the two of them. “You?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “You’re my new neighbor?”

Oliver nods, something flickering across his face. “I just moved in today.”

My mind races, trying to make sense of this new development. “I have to go,” I say, turning and practically running to my door. I fumble with my keys, dropping them twice before managing to get it open. I rush inside, slam the door behind me, and lean against it, my heart hammering.

This cannot be happening. Oliver Sinclair cannot be living across the hall from me. It’s too much, too weird, too… something I can’t even put into words.

I dump my grocery bags on the counter and pull out my phone, my fingers trembling as I dial Evan’s number. He picks up on the third ring, his voice cheerful.

“Hey, Genny! What’s up?”

“You need to get over here,” I say, my voice tight with panic. “Right now.”

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Oliver was at the grocery store and he said he quit his job and his father cut him off and he was going to cook, Evan. Oliver Sinclair was going to cook his own dinner. And now he’s living in my building, across the hall from me, and I don’t know if it’s all real or if I’m having a stress induced hallucination and…”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. Then Evan says, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Oh! Bring food!” I blurt out before he can hang up. “Pick something up from that Thai place we went to last week.”

“Right,” Evan sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. “I’ll be there with food. Text me your order.”

Once he hangs up, I sink onto my couch and wait for my best friend to arrive and tell me this is all just a very bizarre dream. Because the alternative is too insane to even consider.

Chapter 23

Oliver

I yank open another window, letting the cold December air rush in to battle the smoke still hovering in the air of my tiny kitchen. My eyes sting from the lingering haze, and my shoulders ache with tension. Behind me, the charred remains of what was supposed to be steak fajitas sit in the sink, the blackened skillet a monument to my first attempt at cooking anything more complicated than toast.

I set up another fan, this one borrowed from my new neighbor, Mr. Hill, whose response to my knock had been to grumble and hand me the fan while never once looking away from the game show blaring on his ancient television.

The smoke gradually clears, leaving behind the acrid smell of burned food. I’ll be cleaning up a huge mess tomorrow, but the thought doesn’t bother me as much as it should.

“That was spectacular,” Leo says from his perch on my couch. His head is tipped back, eyes closed, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. “A performance worthy of the great chefs of history. I especially enjoyed the part where you managed to both undercook and burn the rice. At the same time. Truly a talent.”

“Don’t just sit there,” I growl. “Make yourself useful.”