Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Need a beer?" Mitchell shouts from the kitchen.
I hold up my glass of scotch and give it a little shake so he can hear the ice clink.
He slides the patio door shut and drops into the chair beside me with a sigh. "Where's the Mrs.?"
I laugh at the wording. "She's with Jo and Hannah."
"No wonder you finally asked me to hang out."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Don't think I haven't noticed you bailing on me lately. Or that I don't hear her in the background when we're on the phone. 'Baby, Love Island is starting!' 'Baby, did you get tampons?' You're so fucking busted."
I shrug, not caring if he thinks I'm whipped. "Sorry not sorry."
He snorts into his beer. "So, how was L.A.?"
It's been almost two weeks since Delaney and I got back, and we've barely been apart. I dropped her at home that first Sunday, but by nightfall I was texting her, asking if she'd crack her window so I could sneak in like I used to when we were teenagers. She said no—then showed up at my door with an overnight bag anyway.
We've spent every night together since. My place has become hers.
But Mitchell's not asking about Delaney. He's asking how I handled being back. And I'd be lying if I said it was easy. I was scared of how it would feel—whether people would ask why I left, whether I'd be shunned by the ones I used to call friends. The day of the ESPYS I had a panic attack so bad I ended up sitting on the shower floor, head between my knees, doing the breathing exercises my therapist taught me. Delaney kept saying she couldn't wait to see me in my element, and I couldn't bring myself to tell her how terrified I was. Somehow, I think she knew anyway.
When I invited her, I really did want to get her out of South Grove. This place felt like a prison when she first came back, and I'm not naïve enough to think it doesn't still sometimes. A change of scenery would be good for her. Sharing a hotel room—and a bed—was also an incentive, though I kept that part to myself.
At the end of the day, I just wanted her with me. I always want her with me
My intentions weren't all pure. Yeah, I asked her to go because I never want to be away from her, but I also needed the distraction—and she was exactly that. With her hand warm in mine and a gentle squeeze whenever she sensed I was starting to come apart, I could breathe again in a place I swore I'd never step foot in. She didn't just get me through the show; she helped me face down the past I've let control me for far too long—let it hurt people I love, push everyone else away.
On the flight home, with her asleep on my chest, I told the past goodbye and quietly said hello to my future. Hello to my life with her.
I still can't believe I got her back. It feels like a miracle. I'm thinking positive, not bracing for impact anymore. I'm chatty with strangers. I didn't bite the head off the guy who let the door slam on me at Maribelle's—actually told him to have a good day, and meant it. I'm patient with my crew, not barking insults when they mess up, which has them looking at me like I'm on some new medication. If this were a movie, I'd be strutting down Main Street with backup dancers, whistling a pop song.
