Chapter 11 - I ASKED MY EX-WIFE FOR A FIRST DATE TEN YEARS AFTER OUR LAST ONE
Eleanor and I were legally divorced for nearly ten years when I asked her on a date.
Not dinner with Samuel.
Not foundation event.
Not school function.
A date.
We were standing outside Hart Compliance after a donor meeting.
I had become operations director at a logistics-integrity nonprofit helping companies build anti-corruption systems and hiring formerly incarcerated workers into lawful transportation jobs.
Life had jokes.
Eleanor’s firm advised ours pro bono on one project.
She emerged from building wearing gray coat.
Blue scarf.
Her father’s.
The same one from night she left.
I stared too long.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You have face again.”
I laughed.
“Coffee?”
“We just had coffee.”
“Not that kind.”
She stopped.
My heart pounded harder than sentencing.
“Eleanor.”
“Yes?”
“Would you go to dinner with me?”
She stared.
“Why?”
“I enjoy you.”
“Terrible reason.”
“I love you.”
Her expression changed.
“But that isn’t the reason.”
“Better.”
“I want to spend time with you when Samuel isn’t agenda.”
She thought.
“Are you asking because you think forgiveness opened door?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“What if I say no?”
“I go home.”
“No mood?”
“Probably mood.”
“Punishment?”
“No.”
“Repeated asking?”
“No.”
She smiled slightly.
“Friday.”
My lungs stopped.
“What?”
“Friday.”
“Dinner?”
“Yes.”
I tried not to look shocked.
Failed.
“You are terrible at casual.”
“I spent years controlling ports.”
“Yes. Friday is harder.”
It was.
We went to small Italian restaurant in Brooklyn.
No private room.
No bodyguards.
No reservations under fake names.
The waiter got our order wrong.
Old me would have made issue.
New me ate wrong pasta.
Eleanor noticed.
“You hate mushrooms.”
“Yes.”
“Tell him.”
“It’s fine.”
She stared.
“Lucian.”
“What?”
“Having boundaries is not only for everyone else.”
I laughed.
Then politely corrected dish.
She smiled.
“Better.”
We talked about Samuel.
Then stopped because rule.
Work.
Books.
Her father.
My mother.
Therapy.
She asked:
“Do you still dream about old house?”
“Yes.”
“What happens?”
“Usually I’m there alone and cannot find door.”
She became quiet.
“Mine used to be you standing in doorway.”
“Used to?”
“Now it’s empty.”
I did not know whether that was good.
Maybe.
Second date two weeks later.
Museum.
Third, I cooked.
Badly.
She helped only after I asked.
Months passed.
We told Samuel eventually.
He stared.
“You dating Mom?”
“Yes.”
“Again?”
“Yes.”
“Is that weird?”
“Yes.”
He considered.
“Okay.”
Children.
At thirteen, he had own problems more important than parental romance.
We kept separate homes.
No rush.
At one year, I said:
“Move in?”
Eleanor said:
“No.”
I said:
“Okay.”
The speed at which I answered made her laugh.
“What?”
“You practiced.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Six months later, she suggested spending weekends.
Then longer.
No permanent move.
At two years, we traveled together.
Not Monaco.
Not yacht.
Maine.
Samuel hated hiking.
Complained entire time.
Best vacation of my life.
One evening by lake, Eleanor asked:
“Do you miss being rich?”
“I’m still comfortable.”
“You know what I mean.”
Power.
Staff.
Mansions.
Name.
Sometimes.
“I miss convenience.”
“Honest.”
“I miss not waiting.”
She laughed.
“Also honest.”
“Do I miss men being afraid?”
I thought.
“Sometimes my body does.”
She looked.
“Explain.”
“When someone challenges me, part of me still expects room to change.”
Another.
“When it doesn't, I feel old anger.”
“Then?”
“I let it pass.”
She nodded.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
“Worth it?”
I looked toward Samuel throwing rocks at water.
“Yes.”
That night, she held my hand.
Simple.
No brass key.
May you like
No contracts.
Choice.
