Maybe Next Time - Christina C. Jones Page 0,3

even that I was necessarily surprised he’d broken it.

Just irritated.

After our blow up–our first truly, truly major one, through the whole seven years of our marriage–I’d retreated to my corner, the condo, and he’d stayed in his, the not-yet-furnished home he’d claimed was a gift for me.

One I hadn’t asked for, or wanted.

With a heavy sigh, I reached for the personal phone at my bedside since it was ringing now. It was no surprise for me to see Nessa’s name on the screen. I was sure if I looked for them, I’d find several missed calls from her, between both phones.

Because I was not the first person at the Hamilton Luxury Transportation offices, as we’d all grown used to me being.

“Yes, second one?” I sang into the phone as soon as I’d answered, smirking when my barely-little sister sucked her teeth.

“Don’t start that shit,” she warned, even as the clear laughter in her tone undermined her words. “Where are you?”

“Still at home.” My eyebrows furrowed as a sound from somewhere in the apartment hit my ears–one that shouldn’t have if I were actually alone. “Denver showed up.”

“Good. It’s way past time for y’all to make up.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m getting a divorce.”

“No you’re not.”

“Nah, I am, though,” I insisted, standing to grab the robe draped over a nearby chair. “Des did the paperwork for me. I had him served yesterday.”

“Shit,” Nessa breathed, then was quiet for a long moment. “So… It’s just over for you? Just like that? You’re not in love anymore?”

“Love isn’t enough. It was never enough,” I replied, shaking my head. “Hey, let me call you back though. I… think he’s still here.”

Of course, she had questions.

If this were the other way around, I would.

Nessa and I–and our brother, Trace–were close. Too close for me not to have told them what I was planning to do. But if I’d told them, they would’ve talked me out of it.

I didn’t want to be talked out of my feelings.

I wanted to lean fully into them.

So instead of entertaining her curiosity, I followed the distinctive sound of someone in my kitchen, fully prepared to curse Denver the fuck out for still being here after I’d made it clear I wanted him gone.

It wasn’t Denver, though.

“Ms. Connie–what are you doing here?” I asked, startling the older woman from her hunched position in my refrigerator. Now that I was out here, the distinctive smell of bleach permeated my nose, making it itch as I looked around at the counter full of food.

“Good morning, honey. Mr. Benoit sent me over, said you needed the fridge disinfected,” she explained, giving me her usual big smile, and an air kiss to boot. I was still processing her words when she turned back to what she was doing, her gloved hands already busy again with a bowl of hot soapy water by the time I got a little closer.

“Sorry–good morning,” I corrected myself. “I just… wasn’t expecting anyone here.”

“Me either,” she chuckled. “You’re one of those renaissance women, usually up and out before the sun.”

My lips quirked into a smile. Of course, she would know, considering she’d been with us for years, as our home manager. Before that, she’d worked just for Denver–though work was a bit of a stretch. Yes, she kept our home life running smoothly, but she struck a line closer to treasured auntie than strictly an employee.

“Just overslept a bit,” I said, not getting into the cause of that abnormality for obvious reasons. But, without giving an excuse, I opened myself up to unfortunate speculation.

Her eyes went wide and hopeful, and I knew exactly what was about to leave her lips before she even said it.

“Is there a bun in that oven making you tired?”

It was like she was speaking from inside a vacuum, her words hollowed-out and eerie, ringing in my ears. I blinked hard, trying to steady myself against the sudden anxiety and nausea that question set off.

“No,” was my terse answer, and Connie immediately put up her hands, offering a placating motion.

“I’m sorry, honey. I know better than to ask, I just—”

“It’s fine. Really,” I assured her, though it most certainly was not. “I need to get to the office. Thank you for coming by.”

“Kensa.”

The urgency in her tone made me stop my escape, but I didn’t want to turn around. There was exactly none of me that could bear the pity that would certainly be in her eyes.

“Let me fix you something to eat.”

I blinked, trying to