Chapter 12: The Jacket
994 Words
Ava’s POV
The jacket is still there in the morning.
I wake with my face half-buried in the soft lining, the scent of Daniel’s cologne clinging to the fabric. For a disorienting second, I forget—forget the separation, the divorce papers, the months of sleeping alone. Then Sophie’s voice drifts in from the kitchen, singing along to some cartoon theme song, and reality settles back into place.
I sit up, running my fingers over the jacket’s collar. Keep it warm for me, he’d said.
A joke. Just a joke.
But my stomach flutters anyway.
Sophie appears in the doorway, a cereal bowl in hand. “Why do you have Daddy’s jacket?”
I drop it like it’s on fire. “He forgot it last night.”
She tilts her head. “Are you gonna give it back?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
I smooth the wrinkles from the sheets. “Soon.”
Sophie grins, milk mustache and all. “You like it.”
I throw a pillow at her. She shrieks with laughter, darting out of the room.
The jacket stays on the bed.
Daniel’s POV
Marcus slams his coffee cup down. “She kept your jacket?”
I rub my temples. “I don’t know if she kept it. It’s just… still there.”
“Dude.” He leans across the table. “That’s a signal.”
“Or she just forgot to give it back.”
Marcus groans. “You’re hopeless.”
I check my phone for the tenth time this morning. No new messages from Ava.
“What do I do?” I ask.
Marcus smirks. “Leave it. Let her make the next move.”
The thought makes my palms sweat.
Sophie’s POV
Mommy keeps touching Daddy’s jacket.
She folds it. Then unfolds it. Then hangs it on the back of a chair. Then puts it on the couch.
I catch her sniffing it when she thinks I’m not looking.
Grown-ups are so obvious.
Ava’s POV
Three days pass.
The jacket migrates from the bed to the couch to the back of my closet—then back to the foot of my bed when I can’t sleep.
I don’t text Daniel about it.
He doesn’t ask.
On Thursday, Sophie has her first school play. Daniel and I sit three seats apart in the auditorium, clapping as she delivers her single line: “The sky is falling!” with all the dramatic flair of a future Oscar winner.
Afterward, we linger near the refreshment table while Sophie runs off with her friends.
“She was great,” Daniel says.
I nod. “Takes after you with the theatrics.”
He laughs, and for a second, it’s easy. Then his gaze drops to my neck—bare, no necklace—and I know he’s remembering the silver chain he gave me on our first anniversary. The one I stopped wearing months before I left.
The silence stretches.
“You never came for your jacket,” I say finally.
Daniel’s fingers tighten around his paper cup. “You never gave it back.”
Our eyes lock.
Sophie crashes into us, sticky with punch. “Can Daddy come for ice cream?”
Daniel looks at me. A question.
I hesitate. Then: “One scoop. Then bedtime.”
His smile is worth the risk.
Daniel’s POV
Ava orders mint chocolate chip. Same as always.
Sophie gets rainbow sprinkles. I stick with vanilla.
We sit at a sticky picnic table outside the parlor, Sophie wedged between us, swinging her legs.
“Did you see me?” she demands through a mouthful of cone.
“We all saw you,” I say. “You stole the show.”
Ava nods. “Next stop, Broadway.”
Sophie beams, then promptly drops her ice cream. It lands upside-down on the pavement with a splat.
Ava and I lunge at the same time, our hands brushing as we reach for napkins.
“I got it,” I say.
“It’s fine,” she says at the same time.
Sophie watches us, wide-eyed. Then she sighs. “Just get me another one.”
Ava laughs, pulling out her wallet, but I’m already standing. “I’ve got it.”
When I return with a replacement cone, Ava’s watching me with an expression I can’t decipher.
“What?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Nothing.”
But she’s still looking at me when I sit down.
Ava’s POV
Daniel carries a sleeping Sophie to my car, her head lolling against his shoulder.
“Sugar crash,” he whispers, buckling her in.
I hover nearby, his jacket folded over my arm. “Here.”
He takes it, our fingers brushing. “Thanks.”
For a second, neither of us lets go.
Then Sophie mumbles in her sleep, and the moment breaks.
Daniel steps back. “See you Sunday?”
Our custody agreement says Sunday is his day. But he’s asking. Not assuming.
I nod. “Text me when you get home.”
The old habit slips out before I can stop it.
Daniel’s eyes soften. “I will.”
As I drive away, I catch sight of him in the rearview mirror—standing in the parking lot, watching us go, his jacket slung over one shoulder.
I press a hand to my chest, right over the ache.
Daniel’s POV
The jacket smells like Ava’s laundry detergent now.
I drape it over my chair instead of hanging it up. Every time I walk by, I catch a whiff—something floral, something her.
At 10:15 PM, I text: Home.
Ava replies instantly: Sophie’s out cold. Thanks for today.
I stare at the screen. Then, before I can overthink it: Want to get coffee sometime? Just us.
The dots appear. Disappear.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
Finally: Not yet.
I exhale.
Then: But maybe soon.
I grin at my phone like an i***t.
Progress.
- Writer
