I could feel her breath.
Still, I waited.
Karen noticed.
“What?”
“I want you to choose.”
“I did.”
Then she kissed me.
There was nothing reckless about it.
That surprised me most.
After all the tension, all the guilt, all the months imagining what that moment would feel like, the kiss itself felt simple.
Warm.
Certain.
Her fingers rested against my jaw.
My hands settled carefully around her waist.
When we separated, she stayed close.
“Well,” she whispered.
“Well.”
“That took a while.”
“I blame your son.”
“That seems healthy.”
I laughed.
She rested her forehead against mine.
And beneath a clear sky, overlooking the city where her first life had fallen apart, Karen Mercer started her second.
People did not understand us.
Of course they didn’t.
Karen’s sister asked whether I was having a “phase.”
One of Michael’s friends made a joke about midlife crises at a charity event and Karen calmly asked whether adultery counted as one.
