Chapter 7 - Late Reply
1215 Words
Liam dropped me home a little after noon.
The café had been exactly what I needed.
Coffee.
A change of scenery.
And someone who could tease me enough to make me forget, even for a moment, how heavy life had been lately.
As his Hilux stopped in front of my gate, Liam leaned back in his seat and glanced at me.
"I'll come over this weekend."
I turned to him. "This weekend?"
"Saturday. I have a meeting nearby in the morning." He grinned. "Besides, I miss the kids."
I smiled.
"They miss you too."
"Good. Tell them Uncle Liam is sleeping over."
"They're going to scream."
"Excellent. I expect a proper welcome."
I laughed as I opened the door.
"You're spoiling them."
"I'm their uncle. That's literally my job."
I rolled my eyes, but the warmth in my chest stayed.
Liam had always been like that.
He showed up.
No grand promises.
No dramatic speeches.
Just presence.
And sometimes, presence was more comforting than any words could ever be.
After Liam drove away, I unlocked the gate and stepped inside.
The house greeted me with its usual afternoon silence.
No cartoons.
No little footsteps.
No tiny voice asking for snacks.
Just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the ticking sound of the wall clock.
I placed my handbag on the dining chair and kicked off my sandals near the shoe rack.
For a moment, I simply stood there.
The house always felt different when the kids were at school.
Cleaner.
Quieter.
Bigger.
And sometimes...
A little too empty.
I walked to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water, and checked the time.
Almost twelve thirty.
I still had a few hours before the school run, which meant I had time to pack several orders before chaos returned home wearing school uniforms.
My phone remained silent.
No reply from Adam.
Not that I was waiting.
Obviously.
I was not waiting for a man I barely knew to respond to a message about my divorce.
That would be ridiculous.
Still, every time my phone screen lit up with a notification, my eyes betrayed me.
Customer.
Supplier.
Bank alert.
Nothing from Adam.
I scoffed at myself.
"Get a grip, Zetty."
I brought my water to the home office and sat at my desk.
The diffuser from earlier had long run out, so I added a few drops of citrus and geranium oil before switching it on again. A soft mist curled into the air, filling the small room with a familiar scent.
Work.
That was what I needed.
Not overthinking.
Not waiting.
Definitely not wondering whether Adam had disappeared after finding out I was divorced.
I started sorting orders.
Skincare minis on one side.
Bracelets and accessories on another.
Bubble wrap, thank-you cards, airway bills.
One parcel after another.
It was almost comforting, how predictable packaging could be.
Fold.
Seal.
Label.
Stack.
Unlike people, parcels did not ask questions I was not ready to answer.
My phone buzzed just as I was taping the last box.
I froze for half a second.
Then I reached for it.
Adam.
I'm sorry.
I fell asleep.
I stared at the screen.
Fell asleep?
At noon?
Before I could reply, another message appeared.
I work night shift.
So my sleeping hours are a mess.
I leaned back in my chair, reading the message twice.
Night shift.
That explained the strange timing.
The early morning texts.
The late replies.
The long silence in the middle of the day.
Still, I wasn't going to let him off that easily.
At noon? I typed.
His reply came a few seconds later.
Yes.
I usually sleep after sunrise.
Sometimes later if I have things to settle.
I tapped my finger against the desk.
What do you do?
The typing indicator appeared.
Disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Warehouse logistics.
Inventory.
Sorting.
Dispatch.
Very glamorous, I know.
A small laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
At least he had a sense of humour.
What time is your shift? I asked.
Five in the evening until two in the morning.
Sometimes three if there's overtime.
That sounded exhausting.
Not the romantic kind of exhausting people wrote about in quotes.
The real kind.
The kind that messed with your body, your sleep, your meals, and your mood.
No wonder you fell asleep, I replied.
Sorry again.
About what?
About assuming.
I knew exactly what he meant.
Wife.
Divorced.
That awkward silence.
For a moment, I did not know how to reply.
It's fine, I typed.
Then deleted it.
It was not fine.
But it was also not his fault.
Finally, I typed something else.
You didn't know.
His reply came slower this time.
Still.
I shouldn't have assumed.
I stared at those words longer than necessary.
It was such a simple apology.
No excuses.
No long explanation.
No turning it back on me.
Just...
An apology.
I hated how much that softened something inside me.
People always assume, I replied.
They see a woman with children and immediately think there must be a husband somewhere.
Is there?
My fingers stilled.
The question was simple.
But the answer carried years of weight.
No.
A pause.
Then he replied.
I'm sorry.
I let out a slow breath.
Don't be.
I'm not.
For the divorce, I mean.
Another pause.
Then his next message appeared.
I stared at his last message for a long moment.
I'm sorry you had to carry everything alone.
My chest tightened.
For some reason, that sentence felt more dangerous than Hi, beautiful ever had.
I placed my fingers on the keyboard.
Deleted the first reply.
Then typed again.
Why now?
The typing indicator appeared almost immediately.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
I frowned.
Why text me after almost two years?
This time, his reply took longer.
Honestly?
I waited.
I saw your post.
My brows pulled together.
Which post? I replied.
The coffee one.
My fingers froze above the screen.
Of course.
The i********: story.
The one with Liam's arm in the corner.
You follow me there?
A few seconds passed.
Yes.
I sat up straighter.
Since when?
This time, he did not answer immediately.
The silence stretched long enough for irritation to return.
Then finally, his message appeared.
For a while.
I stared at the screen.
Define a while.
Typing.
Pausing.
Typing again.
Since I saved your number.
My breath caught.
That was not an answer I expected.
You've been checking my updates all this time?
Another pause.
Then,
Not every minute.
But yes.
Sometimes.
I saw your posts.
Your coffee.
Your business.
Your kids.
Your captions.
I leaned back in my chair, suddenly unsure whether to feel flattered, disturbed, or both.
That's... weird, Adam.
His reply came almost instantly.
I know.
I'm sorry.
I never meant to make you uncomfortable.
I should have stopped there.
I should have blocked him.
Or at least closed the chat and returned to work.
Instead, I typed the question that had been sitting at the back of my mind since yesterday.
Then why didn't you text me earlier?
The typing indicator appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Finally, his reply came.
Because you looked happy.
I stared at the screen.
Then another message arrived.
And I didn't think someone like me had any place in your life.
- Writer
