Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(28)

“No, it’s fine. Do you want to stay for a few minutes and have some coffee?”

“If you’ll have some with me.”

Zoë motioned for him to sit at the table. She went to brew a fresh pot of coffee. Rather than take a chair, Chris leaned back against the sturdy table and watched her.

“Where is the house you’re renting?” Zoë asked, measuring coffee into a filter basket.

“It’s at Lonesome Cove.” Chris paused before adding, “Apropos name, in my current situation.”

“Oh, dear.” Zoë went to fill the coffeepot at the sink. “Trouble with … your partner?”

“I’ll spare you the details. But a lot has been running through my mind. Memories and thoughts … and the thing I keep running into, again and again, is that I never really apologized for what I did to you. I handled everything the wrong way. I’m so sorry for that. I’m—” He closed his mouth and set his jaw, but a muscle in his cheek twitched like an overstretched rubber band.

Carefully Zoë brought the pot of water to the coffee machine and poured it in. “But you did,” she said. “You apologized more than once. And maybe you could have handled it better, but I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for you. I was so focused on my own hurt feelings that I didn’t think about how scary it would be for you to come out. How tough it would be to face everyone’s reactions. I forgave you a long time ago, Chris.”

“I haven’t forgiven myself,” Chris said, clearing his throat roughly. “I didn’t take responsibility. I told you it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t want to think about what I was putting you through. For a while I sort of became a teenager again, going through all the phases I missed during adolescence. I’m so sorry, Zoë.”

At a loss for words, Zoë started the coffeemaker and turned to face him. Her hands smoothed repeatedly over the bib front of her white chef’s apron. “It’s okay,” she eventually said. “It’s really okay. I’m fine. But I’m worried about you. Why do you seem so unhappy? Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

“He left me for someone else,” Chris said, with a ragged laugh. “Fitting justice, right?”

“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “How long ago?”

“A month. I can’t eat, can’t breathe, can’t sleep. I’ve even lost my sense of smell and taste. I went to a doctor—can you believe there’s a level of depression where you can’t even smell things?” He let out a shaken sigh. “You were the best friend I ever had. You were always the one I wanted to tell first when anything happened.”

“You were my best friend, too.”

“I miss that. Do you think …” He swallowed audibly. “You think we could ever get back to that? Not like when we were married … I mean just the friendship part.”

“I can do that part,” she said readily. “Have a seat and tell me what happened. And while you do that, I’ll make you some breakfast. Just like old times.”

“I’m really not hungry.”

“You don’t have to eat,” she said, turning on the stove to preheat a black steel pan. “But I’m going to make something for you.”

When they were married, it had been like this nearly every night—Chris would sit and talk to Zoë while she cooked. It felt familiar to slip back into this, even after all the time they’d spent apart. Chris explained the issues he and his partner had faced, the initial exhilaration of their romance fading into the everyday routine of living together. “And then the things that didn’t seem to matter before—politics, money, even stupid stuff like whether the toilet paper unwinds from the top or bottom of the roll—all of it became important. We started to argue.” He paused as he noticed Zoë breaking eggs into a bowl with one hand. One, two, three. “What are you making?”

“An omelet.”

“Remember, no butter.”

“I remember.” Zoë cast a glance over her shoulder and prompted, “You were telling me about the arguments.”

“Yes. He’s a different guy when we fight. He’s willing to use any weapon, anything you confide in private. Win at all cost—” He paused as Zoë drizzled some clarified butter into a small saucepan. “Hey—”

“It’s a French omelet,” she said reasonably. “I have to do it this way. Just look the other way and keep talking.”

Chris sighed in resignation and resumed. “I wanted his approval too much. Couldn’t stand up to him. But he was the first man I ever …” He fell silent.

Zoë chopped some fresh herbs—parsley, tarragon, basil—and whisked them into the eggs. She understood the process Chris was going through. She knew how many ways you could find to blame yourself after a breakup, how you recounted a hundred conversations to figure out what you should or shouldn’t have said. How you constantly wanted sleep even when you’d already been sleeping too much, and you couldn’t eat even though your body was famished.

And how inexplicably foolish you felt when someone else had failed at loving you.

“There’s no way of knowing how a relationship will turn out,” Zoë said. “You gave it a try.”