Page 45 of The Cowboy Who Stayed

I drum my fingers and listen to the drip-drop coming from the sink. One of the pipes has recently started leaking, and I haven’t gotten around to calling a plumber.

It’s not lost on me how the leaky sink situation strangely feels a lot like my life right now. I’ve tried so hard to keep the past at bay, yet bits and pieces are leaking out.

If I’m not careful, I could be dealing with Craig busting my pipes altogether—and not in a sexual way either.

In a way that destroys everything I’ve started to rebuild in my life.

But Craig begged for a chance to talk. He said he needed to say his peace and then he’d leave me be. He said I owed it to him.

I had no intention of doing this.

However, I also didn’t plan on ever entering into a sexual relationship with a twenty-six-year-old cowboy either. I didn’t expect to have feelings for him.

Never predicted I’d be struggling with myself on how to trust again.

Maybe I need this for closure.

When Craig and I decided to divorce, we stopped talking. Soon our only communication was through our lawyers.

The last time we exchanged words was at the courthouse.

We spent almost twenty years together. To go from living two decades of your life—nearly half my life—with someone to having no contact is a mindfuck.

He was in our bed every night, then he was gone. Suddenly, my ring finger was empty, the sliver of skin there a shade or two lighter than the rest of my complexion.

Craig’s knock drowns out the drip-drop from the leaky sink.

I take a brief second to draw a fresh breath and then mentally prepare myself to come face-to-face with my ex-husband for the first time in over a year.

Craig’s at the front door in an indigo sweater, both hands in his jean pockets. He pops on a grateful smile when I open the door.

“Thanks for agreeing to see me, Viv.” He steps inside with a cautious energy I’m not used to from him. His eyes sweep over my cottage, admiring the space that’s become my sanctuary. “You’ve got a nice place. Very cozy.”

I simply nod, offering no other reaction.

“I know this isn’t easy for you, but hopefully we can be civil.”

“It’s coffee, Craig. Not a peace summit.”

“Fair enough.” He scratches at his trimmed beard and then follows me into the kitchen.

I pour the coffee, and we sit at the kitchen counter in uncertain silence.

“Uh…” he clears his throat. “I’ve had a lot of time to reflect since the divorce. More than I expected. I’ve realized I could’ve handled things differently. I made a lot of mistakes.”

“Oh really? Like what, Craig? Making my breast cancer all about you and your dick?”

His brow furrows, and he drops his gaze from mine. “I want you to know I recognize what I did wrong. How badly I treated you. How I handled everything with... with your diagnosis. I was selfish and a coward. I lost the best thing in my life because of it.”

“You did,” I agree plainly.

“I miss you, Vivica. I’m man enough to sit here and admit that to your face. I miss what we had.”

“What we had was a marriage where you cheated on me while I was fighting for my life, Craig. Let’s not romanticize it.”

He nods slowly, accepting the hit without deflecting for once. “You’re right. I have no excuse for it. None.”

“Then what are you doing here? What could possibly be so important that you needed to say it in person?”