Forgiving Love | rewrite

Monday Mingle

Deleting someone's number works only if you block them first.

"Hey, are you busy?" Leigh's deep voice disturbs my otherwise quiet evening. I put him on a speakerphone and spoon more ice cream into my mouth.

"Not exactly?" It comes out as a question, but it's Thursday evening. I've already said goodnight to Kara and Aiden, and if having a movie night alone doesn't count as busy, I'm free as a bird. "Why?"

"I was thinking," he pauses, and I hear him open a door. "Would you want to meet up tonight?"

Now, that is an intriguing offer. Do I want to spend the night eating ice cream in my pajamas or under Leigh—without my pajamas?

"And what if I did?" I put the lid back on to the ice cream cup.

"I would jump in my car and drive over," Leigh says matter-of-factly, and my eyes turn to slits.

We've always met at his place, and he's never objected to my asking to come over, so why does he want to come here?

"You know, I already had your number deleted." I don't know why I blurt that out, but to my relief, Leigh isn't fazed; it's him, after all.

"Oh, how has that been working for you?" he teases.

I grab my phone with me as I return the ice cream to the freezer.

"Pretty well, considering it made you call me, not the other way around," I shrug, not that he can see it.

"Ah, so that's what this is about. Afraid I don't like you as much as you like me?" Leigh's tone becomes deadly serious.

"What?" I squeal. "Of course not! That's not—"

"Relax, Vivianne. I'm kidding. So...we going to do this or what?" I bet he's holding in his laughter.

"This is why I deleted your number," I murmur, confident it will hit a nerve.

"Sure, send me your address? I'll leave in a couple of minutes," Leigh goes on as if I hadn't spoken. I roll my eyes but promise to send him the address once the call ends.

I don't confess it to him, but I also add his number back to my contacts. Adding him back took me less than 48 hours—a new low.

I sweep the counter, tidy the kitchen, and put my dirty dishes away. It's more of a habit than a need to have a freakishly clean house for guests; my mother always ensured every corner of our house shone when I was a child.

When I lived with Liam, he used to clean up after me, constantly harping on about how a clean house is a happy house.

Living alone has made me realize I've grown accustomed to cleanliness. It only took me a divorce to understand I'm not as messy as I thought.

I walk to the bathroom and check my appearance.

I used to keep my hair short—just above my shoulders—but now I've let it grow well past my collarbones. I've never had thick hair, but it has started to look better lately. My blue eyes have a new spark, and my cheeks are unusually flushed.

I assure myself it is because I'm nervous to have Leigh over for the first time. No one but my parents and Talia have visited my new home. It's not that people don't want to; most of my friends have asked when I'm holding the housewarming party, and I'm always able to avoid answering by making some weird joke about it, but in all honesty, I don't want to.

As I exit the bathroom, I try to see my home through someone else's eyes.

My house is beautiful, straight out of the Interior Design magazine, but it doesn't scream Vivianne. I love many aspects of this house: the spacious living room with floor-to-ceiling windows, the dark oak panels and the plant wall next to the stairs that lead to the twins' and my rooms, and not to mention the gorgeous black kitchen even I—not a fan of cooking—get inspired by.