Z

On April 22, Vincent Moretti and I got divorced.

There was no last-minute interruption.

No dramatic objection.

No revelation that stopped the judge.

The missing attachment had been filed correctly.

The settlement was approved.

The parenting plan was entered.

The judge asked me one final time whether I wanted to dissolve the marriage.

I said yes.

Then she asked Vincent.

He looked directly at me.

“Yes.”

The gavel never actually slammed.

Real courtrooms are less theatrical than television.

The judge signed a document.

That was all.

Seven years became past tense through ink.

Outside, Rebecca hugged me.

“You did something difficult.”

“I feel terrible.”

“Both can be true.”

Vincent emerged with Paul.

We stood ten feet apart.

Ex-husband.

Ex-wife.

Words that felt absurd.

He approached slowly.

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

I laughed through tears.

Of course that was how our marriage ended.

Not screaming.

Not hatred.

Two people standing outside a Nevada courtroom asking whether the other was okay.

“What happens now?” I asked.

“You go home.”

“And you?”

“Same.”

“That isn't what I meant.”

“I know.”

His eyes held mine.

“What do you want to happen?”

“I don't know.”

“Then we don't decide today.”

I nodded.

He surprised me by extending his hand.

Not pulling me close.

Not kissing me.

His hand.

I looked at it.

Then placed mine in his.

“Thank you for Sophia,” he said.

My throat closed.

“She isn't something I gave you.”

“No.”

He smiled faintly.

“But she is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“To me too.”

We let go.

Vincent walked away.

I watched until he disappeared.

Then I went home and removed my wedding ring from the drawer where I'd kept it.

I didn't put it on.

I placed it in a small wooden box.

The marriage was over.

For the next three months, Vincent and I became something strange.

Co-parents.

Friends, occasionally.

Former lovers pretending neither remembered the other naked.

He dated no one.

Neither did I.

Not because we'd agreed to wait.

Because neither of us seemed ready.

Summer arrived.

Sophia learned to sit.

Then crawl.

Vincent baby-proofed the penthouse so aggressively that Marco complained he'd turned it into “a luxury prison for adults.”

Sophia adored him.

Her first recognizable word was “Da.”

I was offended.

“I carried you for nine months.”

Sophia slapped her hands against the floor.

“Da!”

Vincent looked unbearably pleased.

“Don't.”

“I said nothing.”

“Your face said enough.”

He picked Sophia up.

“She has excellent judgment.”

“She eats paper.”

“Still better than most board members.”

I laughed.

It became easier.

That was the dangerous part.

One Sunday, we took Sophia to a quiet park away from the Strip.

No bodyguards close enough to notice.

No attorneys.

No unresolved criminal conspiracies.

Just grass, sun and a baby determined to eat leaves.

Vincent spread a blanket.

I stared.

“What?”

“You brought a blanket.”

“I am capable of owning textiles.”

“You used to think outdoor dining was uncivilized.”

“I've evolved.”

“You also brought champagne to a picnic once.”

“I was twenty-nine.”

“You brought crystal glasses.”

“They improved the experience.”

I laughed.

Vincent smiled at me.

The world went quiet.

Sophia crawled between us.

Later, she fell asleep in her stroller.

We walked along the path.

Vincent's hand brushed mine accidentally.

Neither of us moved away.

“I want to ask you on a date,” he said.

I stopped.

“What?”

“A date.”

“I know the word.”

“I wasn't sure.”

“Vincent.”

He looked terrified.

Vincent Moretti.

Terrified.

I enjoyed it more than I should have.

“You're asking your ex-wife on a date?”

“Yes.”

“That's objectively strange.”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Dinner.”

“No private casino restaurant.”

“Fine.”

“No helicopter.”

“I wasn't going to—”

“You were.”

He sighed.

“Fine.”

“No buying out the restaurant.”

His expression became guilty.

“Vincent.”

“I like privacy.”

“You're impossible.”

“Is that a no?”

I looked at him.

Seven years earlier, Vincent had asked me to dinner after meeting me at a charity gala.

He had been confident.

Certain.

Completely convinced I would say yes.

This time he waited.

No assumption.

No entitlement.

I realized that mattered.

“One date.”

His face changed.

“Really?”

“Don't make me regret it.”

“I won't.”

I raised an eyebrow.

He corrected himself.

“I'll try very hard not to.”

“Better.”

Our first date after our divorce happened at a tiny Italian restaurant twenty minutes from the Strip.

Vincent did not own it.

I checked.

Twice.

We ate pasta.

We talked about books.

Sophia.

Travel.

Anything except our marriage.

At the end, he drove me home.

He walked me to the door.

“Thank you.”

“For dinner?”

“For saying yes.”

I looked at him.

“This doesn't mean we're getting back together.”

“I know.”

“It doesn't even mean there's a second date.”

“I know.”

“Stop saying that.”

He smiled.

Then he leaned forward.

I froze.

He stopped immediately.

“Can I kiss you?”

My heart cracked open.

In seven years of marriage, Vincent had never asked.

He had kissed me because I was his wife.

Because we loved each other.

Because physical affection had been assumed.

Now he asked.

I whispered, “Yes.”

The kiss was gentle.

Almost cautious.

Nothing like the desperate kisses of our marriage.

When he stepped back, my hands were shaking.

Vincent rested his forehead against mine.

“Goodnight, Claire.”

“Goodnight.”

He walked away.

I entered my apartment.

Locked the door.

Then leaned against it smiling like an idiot.

My marriage to Vincent Moretti was dead.

And somehow, for the first time, we were learning how to fall in love.